


Year 2014

by Luna_Hart



Series: Snapshots [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anniversary, Betrayal, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Dogs, HYDRA Husbands, HYDRA Reveal, Hurt Brock, Hurt Jack, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pets, Reunions, Roadtrip, Scars, Serious Injuries, When SHIELD fell, original character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 10:24:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11712465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: A collection of moments in the lives of Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollings:When HYDRA was exposed. When the helicarriers fell. When Brock's whole world came crashing down and then got rebuilt from the ashes.





	1. April, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun tidbit: I slotted in the original characters into the scenes depected straight from the movie. So, the elevator scene depicted in this chapter, you could watch and pick out the agent I thought of as Hunter. Same with the mall scene, for Jennings, McKinnon, and Murphy

“What’s going on?” Jack said, jerking awake as Brock’s hand jostled his shoulder. The last thing he remembered was sprawling out across the couch while Brock insisted on watching some bad action flick with Vin Diesel, or Bruce Willis, or someone else bald. He must have fallen asleep.

“Babysitting duty,” Brock said, shrugging on a black leather jacket. “Let’s go.” Jack sighed, getting to his feet with a yawn. They had just returned that morning from a covert operation to retake a hijacked SHIELD vessel. It had gone off without a hitch, minus Rogers and Romanoff blowing up the bridge, but Jack was exhausted.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he grumbled. “You and me both darlin’,” Brock drawled as he grabbed the keys from the counter.

 

  
They arrived at the vault just as Winter had finished getting geared up. The kid wore a thick canvas jacket, one with two full sleeves that hid his arm for a change. His mask was in place, those ridiculous looking goggles clutched in his hand.

The blank stare that he levelled at the two men had the hairs on Jack’s neck standing up. No spark of recognition, nothing. It was like they were meeting for the first time. They had been on a handful of missions as the Asset’s support team now and every time it was the same. Just because Jack was used to it now didn’t mean it didn’t unnerve him.

“Where’s the rest of my team?” Brock questioned the weedy little agent who approached him.

“Not assigned to this mission. It is a simple release and retrieve,” one of the agents said in a bored, flat tone. He held out a GPS. “Drop him where we tell you, pick him up where we tell you. You are just his ride, you will not be seen with him. You will not blow your cover.” Jack bristled at the man’s obnoxious and frankly disrespectful tone. “He is backup in case our other agents in place fail. Clear?”

“Crystal,” Brock growled, snatching the GPS out of the ratty looking man’s hands. Jack crossed his arms, looming menacingly behind Brock. He noticed with smug satisfaction as the agent took a small step back. “And the target?” Brock asked.

“Need to know,” the ratty man said stiffly, regaining his composure. “And you don’t need to know.” And with a final condescending sniff, he scuttled away. “Down boy,” Brock chuckled, patting Jack on the arm. Jack gave him a withering look in response as they got geared up.

 

  
A few hours later and Jack was bored. They were sitting in a van out back of a long closed pharmacy with nothing to do but wait. And wait.

“I spy with my little eye—ow!” Brock snapped as Jack reached back and flicked his fingers against the side of Brock’s head. No matter how bored Jack was, he’d never be that bored. Brock turned to glare at him just as the back of the van swung open and Winter jumped in.

Brock reached out and closed the doors as Jack turned the key and reversed the van out of the alley. Jack glanced over his shoulder, seeing the Asset slump back against the wall of the van. He yanked off his goggles with a snap, his head hanging low as he slipped his mask from his face.

“You okay, kid?” Brock asked. No answer. “Hey, Winter, you good?” Jack glanced in the rearview to see Brock reaching towards Winter’s shoulder. The kid’s hand snapped out, catching Brock around the wrist without even looking up. Brock grimaced as the metal fingers clenched tight. Jack hit the breaks, the van lurching to a stop. He twisted in his seat but Brock waved at him to stand down.

“Easy kid.” Jack watched as Brock forced himself to relax instead of fighting against Winter’s iron grip. “You injured?” Winter’s eyes flicked to Brock, his brow furrowing. “I know you,” Winter said softly.

“Yeah,” Brock replied cautiously. “I’m your handler. We’ve worked together before,” Brock continued, eyes flicking to Jack briefly. Winter had never remembered them before. “You injured?” Winter shook his head stiffly. “Okay,” Brock said soothingly. “What happened?” Brock hissed as Winter’s fingers clenched tighter, the bones in his wrist grinding together.

“Let go,” Brock ordered. Winter didn't budge. “Winter, let go.” The gears in his metal arm whirred as Winter clenched his jaw, eyes staring blankly past Brock’s head.

“ _Отпусти его, солдат!_ ” Jack snapped. Immediately, Winter let go. Brock winced, rubbing his wrist. “Mission report, Soldier,” he said. If Jack hadn’t been watching, he probably would have missed it. As it was, he saw the kid flinch ever so slightly. “ _Миссия провалена_ ,” he said.

Brock sighed. “English, kid, english,” he said impatiently. Jack on the other hand, whose Russian was far better than Brock’s, felt his heart sink. “Mission failed,” Winter said flatly. “Shit,” Brock muttered as Jack turned back around, pulling the van out of the alley and back onto the main street.

 

 

Pierce was waiting for them when they got back to the bank vault. “Well?” The Secretary said cooly, arms crossed over his chest. “Not you,” the Secretary snapped when Brock opened his mouth to explain. He turned his eyes back to Winter. “Mission report.”

Jack’s eyes flicked to Brock. The man stood stoic and calm as ever, but his tension was betrayed in the way his fist clenched around the kid’s mask and goggles.

Winter just stood there, rigid. He shifted his weight ever so slightly. “I—,” he began. “You failed,” Pierce said sharply. “And you will fix it.” The muscles in Winter’s jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth.

Pierce stalked over, leaning close to Winter’s ear. “No one else can do their jobs if you can’t do yours. Do you understand?” Winter nodded jerkily. “Good,” Pierce said, straightening and pulling down the cuffs of his suit jacket. “Because we can’t do any of this without you.”

He walked towards the vault door, pausing beside Brock. He placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered something too low for Jack to hear. Whatever it was made Brock tense. He nodded stiffly and Pierce left without another word.

Jack waited until the echo of Pierce’s footsteps disappeared before turning to Brock. The older man’s eyes were hard and guarded. “You heard the man,” Brock said crispy before Jack could say anything. With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the vault. 

 

Later that night, they returned to the bank. Jack once again escorted Winter back through the tunnels after two burly agents had stripped the asset of his gear. They had barely reached the vault when footsteps echoed behind them and Pierce strode into the room, Brock trailing behind. “Mission report,” Pierce said, staring down at Winter.

“ _Миссия выполнена_ ,” Winter began but Pierce interrupted him. “English.” Winter frowned, as if he hadn’t realized he spoke in Russian. “Mission complete,” he said.

“Good,” Pierce said, turning to Brock. “You’ll be getting a call shortly.” And with that he left, the two agents following behind with Winter’s gear.

“What does that mean?” Jack asked, but Brock only shrugged. Jack glanced back at Winter. The kid was standing where they had left him. He had that racoon-looking painted shit around his eyes. Jack was convinced it was some kind of inside joke with the agents that prepped him.

“Be right back,” Jack said gruffly, stalking past Brock in search of something to clean the kid up with.

He returned shortly with a rough washcloth he had found in the showers and actual makeup remover he had found in one of the scientist’s lockers. He doused the rag in the flowery smelling liquid and held it out to the kid. “Here.”

Winter looked at it and then at him, confused. “You got a little something on your face,” Jack said, impatiently waving the rag in Winter’s face. The kid took it hesitantly, wiping it at his face. Jack glanced over his shoulder, where Brock was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed and a strange look on his face.

“What?” Jack snapped. “Nothing,” Brock shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing at all.”

“Oh, shut up,” Jack grumbled as Brock chuckled. He had always teased Brock of being a mother hen with the asset. Now Brock was getting his revenge.

Jack turned back to Winter and grimaced. The kid was doing an awful job, really just spreading the charcoal around. Jack sighed, snatching the cloth from Winter’s hands.

He grabbed the kid’s chin with one hand, the other taking the cloth and swiping it firmly but gently around Winter’s eyes. The man flinched at the first touch and then relaxed into it. If Jack didn’t know better, he would swear that the kid even leaned into it a little.

“There,” Jack said, swiping the last bit of black from the kid’s eyebrow. “Not a word,” he growled as he stalked passed Brock. The older man just chuckled.

 

 

 

 

 

  
A few hours later and Brock found himself at MedStar Georgetown hospital with a STRIKE team. They milled about in the hallway, waiting for the appearance of Steve Rogers so they could escort him back to the Triskelion at Pierce’s request.

_Fury was dead._

Those words echoed back across Brock’s mind. He still couldn’t believe it. The kid had killed the Director of SHIELD. Brock had heaved a huge sigh of relief when Winter had jumped back in the van. He had felt guilty, the Director had never been anything but fair to him, however Pierce's parting words were still weighing heavily on his mind:  _"He fails again, and I'm holding you personally responsible, Commander."_

Everything was starting to become very real now. The goal line was in sight. Brock should be excited, the plan was finally coming to fruition, but instead it just made him nervous. He was starting to lose sight of the grand plan, getting caught up in the details; details that sat ill in his stomach.

“Natasha,” a familiar said from behind him, shaking Brock from his musings. He saw Romanoff turn as Rogers stepped out into the hallway. “Why was Fury in your apartment?” He heard her accuse as he walked toward them. “I don’t know,” Rogers said, blatantly lying. Even Brock could tell.

“Cap, they want you back at SHIELD,” he said briskly. Rogers glanced back at him, throwing a “Yeah, give me a sec,” over his shoulder as he turned back to Romanoff.

“They want you now,” Brock insisted. The look Rogers gave him would have had a lesser man shaking in his boots. As it was, Brock almost took a step back. Almost. “Okay,” Rogers said with exaggerated patience. Brock gave a quick nod and backed off.

A few minutes later and Rogers was striding towards him down the hall. “Let’s go.”

“Yeah,” Brock said softly before turning back to the rest of his team. “STRIKE, move it out!”

 

 

 

 

 _As if this day couldn’t get anymore fucked_ , Brock thought as he strode towards the elevators accompanied by Drake and Gallagher.

“ _Take Captain Rogers into custody_ ,” Pierce had ordered. That was going to be easier said than done.

He caught up with Rogers just as the elevator doors started to close. “And I want STRIKE personnel on sight,” he finished whatever bullshit sentence he had pulled out of his ass, eyeing Rogers where he stood facing out the back wall of the glass elevator. He was in his full gear, minus that ridiculous cap, shield strapped to his back as always. “Yessir,” Gallagher said, crossing to stand beside Drake.

“Forensics,” Brock told the elevator and they started to move down. “Cap,” he said, turning to look out the side of the elevator. It looked out over the river. Brock could almost see the Lincoln Memorial in the distance. “Rumlow,” came the polite response as Cap turned around.

“Evidence response found some fibres on the roof they want us to see. You want me to get the tac team ready?” Brock asked, glancing over to Rogers.

“No, let’s wait and see what it is first,” came the reply. Rogers’ eyes were downcast, his tone preoccupied. “Right,” Brock said, turning back around. He shifted so he had his back to Rogers. He could feel the man’s eyes on him.

The elevator doors opened with a bing. Waters and that ex-Marine with the really deep voice whose name Brock could never remember stepped in, dressed in suits. Hunter and Lee followed behind. Brock gave Hunter a curt nod as the young man moved to the back of the small glass box, keeping up a generic conversation with Lee.

“Administrations level,” the ex-Marine said, moving to stand with Waters on the other side of Rogers.

“I’m sorry about what happened with Fury,” Brock said over his shoulder, trying to put Rogers at ease. “It’s messed up, what happened to him.” He could feel Rogers’ eyes boring into the back of his skull and he consciously kept his body loose and relaxed. “Thank you,” the man said quietly.

Out of the corner of Brock’s eye he could see Rogers’ glance around the elevator, his eyes clocking bam-sticks, briefcases, and the increasing number of men. Shit, Brock thought. The less of a surprise they had on the man, the more unlikely it became that they could subdue and contain him.

The elevator grown to a halt and the doors opened again, revealing Jack with two massive men behind him. “Records,” Jack said shortly, coming to stand beside Brock. “Confirmed,” the elevator chirped and they started to descend again.

Brock could feel Rogers shift behind him as Gallagher moved to stand behind him. The agents slowly shuffled around, eventually surrounding Rogers.

“Before we get started,” Rogers said into the silence. “Does anyone wanna get out?” Brock felt Jack tense beside him, his head raising a little. _Here we go_ , Brock through as he took a deep breath.

There was a pause and then Jack unfurled his bam-stick with a crack. He spun and stabbed it towards Rogers’ chest, electricity sparking.

The entire elevator went into a flurry of action as Rogers’ dodged the blow and shoved Jack into Drake, who in turn collided with Brock. Drake reached a hand out, slamming the emergency stop and the elevator ground to a stand-still.

Brock got pinned up against the glass wall with Hunter as a mosh of bodies surrounded Cap. Someone got him in a choke hold as Waters and that ex-Marine detached the handles from their briefcases, revealing super heavy-duty magnetic cuffs.

They almost managed to get one of his hands pinned when he lashed out, catching Gallagher in the knee with his boot. Everything exploded in chaos. Three agents went down, including Jack as Rogers’ got in a lucky blow to the big man’s throat. The side of Jack’s head slammed into the railing as he fell and he was out cold.

Brock didn’t even have a chance to check if Jack was still breathing as Roger’s threw the man choking him over his shoulder. The man slammed into Hunter and they both went down in a tangle of limbs.

Brock lashed out with his boot, kicking Roger’s hand up and back. The magnetic cuff sealed onto the elevator wall with a clunk. Rogers deflected his first blow of the bam-stick, but Brock was right back on him, cracking the blonde across the back. He held the rod there as it sparked. Rogers’ growled as volts of electricity coursed through his body. Brock grimaced, knowing from personal experience how painful the things were.

Rogers pivoted, pushing Brock off. He grabbed Lee and used the man’s momentum against him, throwing him up into the air. Lee’s face cracked against the security camera and he fell, unconscious.

Rogers’ dropped two more agents, slamming a boot across Brock’s face in the process before kicking Drake up and into the glass wall of the elevator. As Brock scrambled to his feet, Roger’s yanked himself free, smacking Hunter across the jaw and taking down the ex-Marine at the same time. Brock picked up two bam-sticks as Rogers flipped Hunter into the metal side wall like he weighed nothing. Now only Brock was left standing.

“Whoa big guy,” Brock breathed, shifting his weight and keeping the man at arms length. “I just want you to know Cap,” he said, trying to distract him but actually meaning every word. “It isn’t personal!”

And he leapt forward, bringing one bam-stick down overhead. Rogers blocked it like Brock had anticipated, and he swung the other one up low, stabbing it against Rogers’ abdomen.

Brock got a couple of good hits in before Rogers deflected him to the side. His body followed his arm down and suddenly he was airborne, slamming into the light grate overhead. He didn’t even remember hitting the ground.

 

 

  
Brock was pissed. Not only had Rogers’ wiped the floor with him and his men, but he had also had to endure the tongue-lashing from Pierce that had followed as a result. All in all, Brock had been one of the lucky ones, escaping the elevator with only minor bruising.

Hunter was sporting a busted lip and some colourful bruises down his back. Some of the other guys were in hospital. Lee might even need reconstructive surgery.

If Brock was pissed, Jack was furious. The side of the man’s face was scraped and bruised, a large welt was forming on the side of his forehead. His eyes were hard as he stepped out of the SUV in front of the mall where they had pinpointed Cap’s location. Brock followed behind him, slipping his Glock into the back of his jeans with grim determination.

They combed through the mall, splitting up into teams of two, leaving Brock on his own to coordinate from the ground floor.

“Negative at the source,” Jack’s voice came over the comms. “Gimme a floor run down,” Brock ordered, listening as everyone came back with nothing. “Negative on three,” Russell said as he and Murphy swept along the balcony.

“Negative on two,” Jennings relayed for herself and McKinnon and Brock grimaced. “Snake the upper levels,” Brock snapped, headed for the escalators. “Work down to me.”

He got on the escalator, eyes sliding over a young couple making out on the descending elevator beside him. Something made him glance back over his shoulder. He caught sight of the kissing couple again as the woman turned around. A shock of bright red hair flashed as her hood fell back.

He looked back again, seeing the young couple now walking quickly down the rest of the escalator. The man turned slightly, casting his face into profile. Despite the glasses and the baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, Brock knew who it was. He watched as they wove their way through the crowd and disappeared.

 

 

  
Brock was silent as he sat in the back of the jet on their way back from New Jersey. They had blown the entire building to pieces, and still Rogers had slipped through their fingers. This wasn’t something that STRIKE could handle on their own. You needed a super soldier to take down another super soldier.

They were striding out of the jet and into the Triskelion when Brock fell into step beside Jack. “I need to talk to you,” he said under his breath. “Now.”

Jack followed behind Brock as he stepped into the nearest mens bathroom. He walked down the rows of stalls, pushing each door open to make sure they were truly alone. “Paranoid much?” Jack drawled as Brock locked the door.

He waited patiently as Brock made sure his comms were off, rolling his eyes when Brock gestured for him to do the same.

Brock turned back to Jack, feeling frazzled. He ran a nervous hand through his hair. He though he knew the man in front of him, but there was a small chance that he could have completely misjudged him. A chance that he was wrong about what kind of man he thought Jack was. He really hoped he was right, because if he wasn’t, things were about to get ugly.

“I let them go,” Brock said finally. Jack frowned, obviously not knowing what he was talking about. “At the mall,” Brock breathed, looking anywhere but at Jack. “I saw them on the escalators and I let them go.”

A heavy silence fell between them. It stretched on and on until Brock couldn’t take it anymore and risked a glance up at Jack. The younger man’s face unreadable.

“If you’re gonna shoot me, can you just get it over with?” Brock said exasperated, but his heart was hammering in his chest and he struggled to keep his breathing even. 

“I’m not gonna shoot you,” Jack muttered. “You’re doing a bang up job of getting killed all by yourself. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I don’t know!” Brock protested, feeling a little weak in the knees with relief. “Clearly,” Jack snorted, shaking his head. “Bad time to develop a conscience, darlin’.”

“Oh, don’t give me that shit,” Brock snarled. “After everything that’s happened, after everything we’ve seen with Winter, you don’t get to give me that shit!”

“Okay, okay,” Jack sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You know the second Insight goes online there’ll be nowhere to run, nowhere for us to hide.”

“I know,” Brock said. “They’d know everything,” Jack continued relentlessly. “I know!” Brock interrupted, running a hand through his hair again. “You think I don’t know?”

“We can’t stop it.” Jack stated flatly. “We could try,” Brock said, shifting his weight nervously. Jack stared at him, eyes wide. “A little fucking late, don’t you think?” Jack said with a huffed breath. Brock clenched his jaw.

“Look, all I know is that this isn’t black and white anymore,” Brock said. “And I’m not sure if I still want a part in it.” Jack just stared at him for a long moment, the silence stretching between them.

“So what do you want to do?” Jack asked softly. Brock swallowed. That was Jack. He’d tell Brock to his face how stupid he though he was, but he’d still follow whatever decision he made. He’d walk through fire for Brock, without even asking why. Which meant it was up to Brock to make sure that nothing happened to him. “Stay alive and try not to kill anyone we don’t have to?” He finally said, hesitantly.

Brock half expected Jack to laugh, but he didn’t. He just looked at Brock with those bright green eyes for a long moment. “Okay,” he said simply.

Brock nodded. “Okay.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Отпусти его, солдат - Let him go, Soldier  
> Миссия провалена - Mission failed  
> Миссия выполнена - Mission complete 
> 
>  
> 
> Comments and feedback are my fairy dust, they make me fly!


	2. April, Part 2

“Drop the shield, Captain!” Brock shouted, gun raised and level with Rogers’ head. “On your knees!” He closed in as STRIKE surrounded the area, guns pointed at Romanoff and some pretty boy with a fancy metal backpack.

“Get down! Get down!” He said, smacking his boot into the back of Rogers’ knee. “Get on your knees! Down!” He holstered his side arm as Rogers’ knelt, hands in the air.

He yanked Rogers’ arms behind him, knowing full well the only reason he could was because the man was letting him. He secured his wrists tight behind his back as Jack came up beside him, gun aimed for the blonde’s head.

They had received kill orders an hour ago.

“Put the gun down. Not here.” Brock muttered, seeing a news helicopter overhead. Brock wasn’t sure what Jack meant to do, but putting a bullet through Cap’s head seemed pretty likely. Jack was still pissed about the elevator incident.

Regardless, they couldn’t afford the press. “Not here,” he snapped again as Jack hesitated, glancing up at the other man. Jack slowly lowered his rifle, his eyes hard and unreadable.

 

 

 

Brock was silent as the SUV’s pulled into an abandoned warehouse complex. He got out as Jack did. They exchanged a brief look, before Brock snapped out orders.

“Three holes. Start digging.”

He couldn’t risk heroics for the sake of Cap or his friends. There were too many agents, there was no way he could take them all down. It was too big a risk, and one Brock was not willing to take.

They had to survive. Jack had to survive, or everything would have been for nothing. There was no other way. It didn’t sit easy on Brock’s conscience but he could live with it. He lived with far worse things on his conscience than this.

As it turned out, his dilemma was solved for him. They yanked open the doors to the armoured truck, finding an incapacitated STRIKE agent and a smoking hole in the floor.

Brock shared a look with Jack. Was it his imagination, or did he catch a flicker of relief in those harsh green eyes?

 

 

 

 

 

Jack stood facing out of the vault, his back to Winter as scientists tinkered with the damage his arm had sustained after the battle on the bridge. With Rogers and Romanoff still on the loose, HYDRA would be depending on the Asset even more during the final stage of Project Insight.

A whir of gears reached his ears and a scientist was thrown across the room, skidding into the wall. Jack spun on his heels, bringing his rifle up and aiming at Winter.

The kid stood there, fists clench and bare chest heaving, glaring across the room at Jack. His eyes were hectic and slightly unfocused. Jack had never seen him this far gone, not even their first mission together when they got stuck in a shack during a blizzard for days.

The kid’s pale eyes stared directly into his. Was it Jack’s imagination, or did he see a flicker or recognition. Jack lowered his gun as footfalls echoed behind him.

“Sir, he’s…he’s unstable,” Jack heard from outside the vault gate. “Erratic,” the man continued as Pierce stepped into the vault, Brock close on his heels.

Jack turned as they walked in, locking eyes briefly with Brock before his gaze slide back to Pierce. The man raised both hands and Jack signalled for the other agents to lower their weapons.

He watched as Pierce tucked his glasses into his suite front. “Mission report,” he said sharply. “Mission report now,” he repeated when Winter said nothing. He didn’t even look at Pierce, simply staring unfocused into mid-space.

Jack shifted his weight as Pierce stepped closer, leaning down to Winter’s level. Pierce’s hand lashed out, backhanded Winter viciously across the face. Jack grimaced as the kid’s head snapped harshly to the side from the impact.

It seemed to jumpstart him, however. Winter turned back with a confused, yet more focused look in his eyes.

“The man on the bridge…who was he?” He asked, glancing up at Pierce. “You met him earlier this week on another assignment.” Pierce said cautiously. Jack could almost hear the gears in the Secretary’s brain whirring.

“I knew him,” Winter said quietly, his eyes flicking over to Jack. The clarity in them was startling. Jack swallowed, feeling uneasy. What was the kid saying, knew him. There was no way Winter could know Steve Rogers. Unless…..

Jack knew about the cryo-freeze they suspended Winter in when he was not in use. Rumours circulated that it was sometimes for years at a time. It was possible that he had met Rogers, in another time and place. Jack had no idea how long the Winter Soldier had ben operating for. He supposed it was possible that he had been doing this for decades.

Jack was pulled from his musings as Pierce sighed, pulling up a stool. “You’re work has been a gift to mankind,” Pierce began, droning on through an inspired speech about order, chaos, freedom, and bullshit. Jack wasn’t really paying attention. His eyes flicked across to Brock, but the other man kept his gaze firmly on Winter.

There was a pause after Pierce had finished. Jack flicked his eyes back to Winter, praying the kid wouldn't say something stupid.

“But I knew him.”

Pierce sighed, getting to his feet. Jack smothered a wince. That was the something stupid he was worried about. “Prep him,” Pierce ordered. “He’s been out of cryo-freeze too long,” the lead scientist protested. “Then wipe him and start over.” Pierce replied briskly.

Winter’s eyes flicked over to Brock, seeming to search for something from his handler. The other man wouldn’t even look at him. Winter grimaced as the scientists pushed him back in the chair.

Jack saw Brock turn to Winter but the kid wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was staring defiantly out at Pierce, eyes hard and cold. Still, he opened his mouth obediently for the mouth guard as the chair whirred to life. His breathing stuttered and his fists clenched as the metal clapped around his arms.

Jack tried to block out the screams but it was impossible. Pierce turned away with a satisfied look and strode out of the vault, leaving Brock no choice but to follow behind.

Jack stayed, though. He stayed until the process was complete and Winter tumbled from the chair, shaking and confused.

He stayed with him through the prep, through the medical tests and the mission briefing. He stayed as Winter got geared up, double checking straps and buckles because the assholes who were in charge of getting him prepped never did.

He checked clips and slides as he handed weapons to Winter, knowing full well the kid would check them himself but wanting to be doubly sure.

Then Brock arrived and introduce himself yet again as his handler. He triple checked all the same straps and buckles as Jack had while going over the mission brief again. And all the while Winter stared blankly at them, like they were complete fucking strangers.

 

 

 

 

The next morning, as STRIKE was gearing up for the takedown of the Triskelion and the launch of Project Insight, Brock grabbed Jack and quietly pulled him into a supply closet.

Once inside, they grabbed at each other greedily. Brock’s hands scrabbled for purchase as their lips crashed together. Jack wrapped a large hand around the back of Brock's neck, deepening the kiss. Brock tangled a hand in the taller man’s hair, uncaring of the wax that kept the severe style Jack favoured for work together.

Jack finally pulled away, teeth grazing Brock's bottom lip. He looked down at him with such intensity that it made Brock feel a little weak in the knees. Brock returned his gaze, fixing every tiny detail of Jack’s face in his mind.

They both had their missions, their own separate assignments. Jack would be in charge of helping Pierce take control of the council while Brock launched the helicarriers. They wouldn’t be able to watch each others backs, not this time.

Brock reached up and grabbed the front of Jack's tac vest, pulling him close. “You stay alive, you hear me?” Brock whispered fiercely. ”If I find out that you got yourself killed, I’ll never speak to you again."

A small smile tugged at Jack’s lips as he gently cupped the side of Brock's face. His thumb rubbed softly at Brock's cheekbone, eyes searching the shorter man's face like he was trying to burn it into his memory. "I'll see you on the other side," Jack whispered.

Brock swallowed thickly, hooking his free hand on the front of Jack’s tac vest. He nodded, not knowing what else to say. He toyed briefly with the idea of ‘I love you’ but dismissed it quickly. They weren’t really the type. They were men of actions, not words. Besides, Jack knew that he loved him. He didn’t need to say it. But he could show him.

So instead, he leaned in and kissed him again, this time so sweet and so very gentle. They lingered for a moment longer and then Jack was gone. Brock waited a few more minutes, taking a deep steadying breath, and then followed.

 

 

 

 

Brock rounded the corner carefully as he heard voices and running footsteps approaching from down the hall. He was able to launch the helicarriers while also managing not getting shot. Brock called that a win, at least so far.

He slipped around the corner, dropping two men quickly before raising his gun and dropping three more who came running at the sounds of the fight.

“Sir, the council’s been breached,” a voice sounded in Brock’s comm. Brock stilled, gun raised and senses on high alert. “Repeat dispatch!” He snapped.

“Black Widow’s up there.”

Romanoff was in the council. Brock felt a chill run through his body. That’s where Jack was, protecting Pierce and making sure not of the other council members. “Headed up.” Brock snapped, turning on his heels and heading for the stairwell.

 

  
“Headed towards the south west stairwell,” he said as he pushed through the big double doors and out into the bullpen.

Something cracked across his face and Brock stumbled, losing his gun. He turned as the same pretty boy that had been with Rogers before wrapped his arms around his neck and slammed a knee up towards his face.

He blocked it with his forearms as they stumbled backwards. A quick twist and he trapped the other man’s arms. Brock cracked his forehead across the other man’s nose with a vicious snap. Pretty Boy’s head whipped back and Brock shoved him away.

“This is gonna hurt,” Brock breathed, shrugging out of his tac vest as the other man struggled to his feet.

 

  
The fight was vicious. Pretty Boy held his own for a while, but he was outmatched. Brock roared as he threw the kid up and over the desk. He smashed through the glass divider, bounced off the desk, and crashed onto the floor with a grimace.

Brock hopped up on one of the desks, getting tired with the delay. He had to get to the council. “You’re out of your depth, kid,” Brock said, as Pretty Boy blinked up at him. His eyes grew wide as he looked at something just past Brock’s shoulder. He was suddenly scrambling to his feet.

Brock turned sharply and could see nothing out the window behind him but the hull of the helicarrier as it crashed into the side of the building.

“Son of a bitch!” He snapped as he leapt off the desk and ran for the door. The ground beneath him buckled and fell away and debris rained down around him.

Brock flinched back as a support beam slammed down in front of him. The ground crumbled out from under him and he fell with a cry before everything collapsed into darkness. 

 

 


	3. June, Part 1

  
Pain. Burning, searing pain. Brock’s whole existence now revolved around pain. Every single nerve felt like it was on fire. Brock screamed until he felt his vocal cords tear, screamed until he lost his voice, and then kept screaming. The only relief he got was when that cold rush would flood his veins and toss him into oblivion.

Everything was a blur. He would surface from his drug haze to the intense pain of debridement, to the adjustment of the pins that held his legs together. Sometimes he would hear voices as he drifted back from that oblivion. Jumbles of words would reach his ears. Usually it was medical garble that Brock wouldn’t have understood even if he wasn’t under the influence of heavy narcotics.

The words ‘ _traitor’_ and ‘ _double agent_ ’ once drifted through his ears, and that’s when Brock realized it wasn’t HYDRA that had pulled him from the rubble.

Early on, he overheard a heated conversation between an agent and a doctor, arguing over why he wasn’t cuffed to the bed. The agent argued that he was a security risk. The doctor argued back that he probably wouldn’t survive the next forty-eight hours, let alone ever walk again, so he was hardly a security risk.

Brock didn’t really pay much attention, couldn’t pay attention. The only thing that mattered was that the pain wasn’t getting better. It rolled over Brock in waves. Even his hair hurt. His skin felt stretched tight over his bones, like it was thinner than before. More fragile.

 

 

  
The first time he really remembered fully waking up, Captain America was on TV. So was Romanoff, for dumping all of SHIELD’s files onto the internet and in doing so, exposing all of HYDRA’s files as well.

Brock grimaced. Any alias he had set up with either organization would be burned now. Not that he would be needing one in a hurry, but Jack would need one. Jack would need one because he was alive. Jack had made it out before the Triskelion fell.

Other nastier outcomes kept sneaking into Brock’s treacherous mind and he kept pushing them away. Jack made it out in time. He had to believe it, because the alternative was too painful.

The more time passed, the more Brock began to notice the strange looks the doctors and nurses were giving him when he surfaced from his drugged-out haze. The strange looks turned to nervous ones as he started to regain more feeling in his extremities.

Brock remembered the day when he wiggled his toes for the first time since he’d woken up. He choked, hot tears soaking into the bandages that covered his face. He didn’t care who saw, he was that relieved.

Eventually the pins were removed from his legs. The heavy bandages became lighter and the nervous looks became more frequent, many turning almost greedy. The doctors ordered tests upon tests. Brock began finding it tedious and a little nerve-wracking.

As more time passed, they started weaning him off the heavy pain meds. Brock wished they wouldn’t. He had relished the nothingness they brought.

 

 

One morning, he woke to a man sitting next to him. He wore a nice suit and had a pleasant enough face. Brock remembered meeting him a handful of times at HQ before.

“Commander Rumlow,” the man said pleasantly. Everything about the man radiated pleasant, from the tone of his voice to his body language. It made Brock uncomfortable.

“What do you want, Coulson?” Brock ground out past vocal cords torn from screaming and tight from disuse. “I pulled your previous medical records,” the man said, flipping through the file folder in his hands. “They go back a long ways and there is nothing remotely extraordinary about them.”

“Gee thanks,” Brock drawled. “Until last year,” the man continued. “After your unfortunate incident with one Keaton Richfield.” Brock flinched. That was not something he wanted to get dragged back into the light. He’d done everything he could to just forget it.

“So what changed?” Coulson asked, not noticing or just ignoring Brock’s discomfort. Brock glanced over, startled. The man still had that pleasant look on his face. “What are you talking about?” Brock rasped.

Coulson sighed, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. “You’re facing life imprisonment on the Raft at best here, Commander.” Brock grimaced at the mention of SHIELD’s underwater supermax prison. He had figured as much. “You’ve got nothing left to lose,” Coulson continued. “So tell me, what was it?”

Brock just stared at him. “Centipede?” Coulson asked. “Extremis? Certainly not Bio-Tech Force making a comeback.”

“What the fuck are you on about?” Brock snapped, wincing as the words ripped at his sore throat. He didn’t know what Extremis or Bio-Tech was, but he had heard of Centipede. A cold wash of fear ran through him as Coulson flipped open the folder again.

“Partially severed spinal cord, shattered pelvis and tibias, eight broken ribs, collapsed lung, multiple crush injuries, massive internal bleeding. Cracked skull, orbit, and lower jaw, detached retina, not to mention the extensive second and third degree burns to eighty percent of your body.”

Brock’s throat tightened and he felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes. He knew it had to be bad, but it was another thing to hear it said out loud. “Don’t sugarcoat it,” he muttered, clamping down on his emotions with an iron grip. He refused to show any weakness in front of this suit.

“Come on, Rumlow,” Coulson said patiently. “The doctors didn’t expect you to last the first forty-eight hours, let alone ever walk again. And yet here you are,” he sat back in the tiny plastic chair, tossing the file on the side table behind him. “You’ve regained full function to all your extremities, minus some lingering nerve damage. Any internal injury seems to be correcting itself. Your ribs are already started to knit back together.”

Brock was having a really hard time processing what Coulson was telling him. “You’re making it sound like I have super powers,” he drawled, deflecting with humour. Coulson just looked at him calmly before continuing.

“They’ve already removed the pins in your legs because the bones were starting to fuse back together. So what did HYDRA give you? Was it a new super soldier program? A new serum, what?”

Brock glared at the man, trying to control the hammering of his heart. He wasn’t very successfully, as the machines monitoring his pulse started beeping faster and faster. Coulson spared a glance at the heart monitor and actually looked a little smug. A doctor passed the door, sending a glare in Coulson’s direction but said nothing.

“Be reasonable, Rumlow,” Coulson said, as always the picture of calm and collected. It was beginning to grate on Brock’s nerves. “You have only to gain from telling me what I need to know. Just give me something, and I can help make you more comfortable.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brock stated flatly. He honestly had no idea. What serum was Coulson on about? He hadn’t been apart of any program with HYDRA.

Coulson sighed, getting to his feet. “Fine, suit yourself,” the suit said, heading for the door. “You’ll have plenty of time to change your mind. Oh,” he said, turning back. “And I wouldn’t try walking any time soon. For all that you’re healing quickly, your shins will still shatter like glass.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Brock accused. Coulson’s mouth quirked to the side ever so slightly. “A little,” the man admitted. Brock chuckled. It felt like he was gargling sandpaper. “Go fuck yourself!” He snarled.

“I was trying to be nice,” Coulson sighed, staring down over Brock. “We’ll get our answers, even if we have to cut you open to get them.” With that, he left. Brock clenched his jaw to stop it from trembling, ignoring the stab of pain that shot through it.

  
Coulson had been right. Brock certainly did have a lot of time on his hands. Days blurred together in a never-ending, boring cycle of meds and doctors and boredom. A pretty girl with a perky name, like Penny or Poppy or something, would come by to do daily physical therapy with him.

To everyones astonishment, he started walking only two weeks after Coulson visited him. His skin healed enough that they started cuffing him with the soft manacles they use for psyche patients. It was terrible timing as it was when Brock’s skin also started to itch like crazy. It was almost worse than the pain.

 

 

 

  
Brock woke one morning from a dream of pain and voices telling him confusing things. Words like ‘ _orders’_ , and _‘special’_ floated through his mind, chasing an icy cold pain that lingered in his chest.

The more the drugs cleared out of his system, the more he knew that something wasn’t right. He had no business walking, let alone even being alive. His brain whirled, pulling up all sorts of scary scenarios of secret experiments and clinical trials he hadn’t know he’d been apart of.

He was shaken from his thoughts as the door to his room burst open and four burly agents strode into the room. “On your feet,” the first one snapped. He had a shaved head and a goatee like some cliche comic book villain.

Brock sighed. He had expected this would happened soon, but he didn’t expect it so quite yet. Although, if he was being honest he still wasn’t sure how much time had passed since the fall.

“On your feet, traitor,” the agent snapped again. Brock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Even how the man spoke was cliche. Brock lifted his hands, which were still shackled to the bed, and raised an sardonic eyebrow.

The agent scowled. He undid the shackles and then Brock found himself yanked roughly to his feet. He hissed as his knees buckled and he caught himself on the side of the bed before his knees cracked against the ground. The still-healing skin pulling painfully against the bedsheets.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” A light voice, heavy with outrage, reached Brock’s ears. “Ma’am, stay back,” one agent ordered as Brock’s perky physical therapist ducked under his outstretched arm. “The hell I will,” she snapped, slipping slim and surprisingly strong arms under Brock’s armpits and helping him to sit on the side of the bed.

“He’s still healing,” she scolded, running cool hands down his legs. "You have no right-,"

“I have orders,” the first agent snapped. “He’s to be transferred to a maximum security facility.”

“Well, that certainly sounds like a lot of paperwork to me,” she said icily. The agent bristled but she wouldn’t back down. Finally, the agent broke eye contact and turned on his heel. “Watch him,” he snapped at the other agents.

Brock turned curious eyes down at the slim woman. “Thanks,” he rasped. She glanced briefly at him before turning his attention back to his wrists and arms. “In this room, I don’t care what you did,” she said crisply. “I have a job and I do it well, regardless.”

“Thanks all the same,” Brock said quietly. Her eyes flicked up to his, lingering briefly before she stood. “I’ll get you some clothes,” she said with a small smile.

 

 

A few minutes later and Brock, dressed in sweat pants and a light hoody, was roughly loaded into the back of a van. Three of the four agents climbed in with him. Two sat on either side and the cliche goatee agent sat across from him, glaring daggers the whole time. Brock’s hands were manacled together in front of him, the sharp cuffs chaffing the raw new skin.

“Finally off your high horse, aye Rumlow?” Agent Goatee drawled, a nasty sneer on his face. “Not so pretty now, huh?”

Brock managed not to flinch. He had been a little vain, and why shouldn’t he have been? He had been good looking, had taken pride in his appearance. He still didn’t know what he looked like now, how ruined his face was. He had avoided mirrors and reflective surfaces, scared that he wouldn’t recognize the face looking back.

Not that this was anything he was going to let on to Agent Cliche over there. He fixed a bored look of his face and smirked. “Isn’t your name Smith?” He asked. The agents eyes narrowed and Brock took that as a yes. “Remind me again how many times you got rejected from STRIKE?”

“Laugh it up, asshole,” Smith said, an ugly purple flush creeping up his neck. “Where you’ll be going, it’ll be a long time before—,” the man never got to finish as something smashed into the side of the van. Brock lurched as the van spun before jolting to a stop.

Never one to waste an opportunity, Brock lashed out, catching Smith dead in the throat with the heel of his foot. That’s what the idiot got for not thinking to put him in leg irons. Smith fell with a choked cry as Brock gritted his teeth against the sharp pains that radiated up his leg.

He lashed out with an elbow, breaking one agent’s nose before smashing the other’s head back against the van wall twice. The man slumped over, unconscious as Brock yanked the man’s pistol and cracked it across the remaining agent’s head. The agent fell as the back doors to the van burst open, revealing Murphy and Waters with guns raised.

“About fucking time,” Brock drawled as he crawled over the agent’s bodies and out the back. “Sorry boss,” Murphy smirked as he helped Brock out of the van and hustled him into the waiting SUV. “Traffic was awful.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Brock muttered as the SUV screeched out of the intersection. “Get these off me.” Murphy reached back and unlocked the manacles, tossing them to the floor.

Brock gently chaffed his wrists where the too-tight cuffs had cut into the healing skin. “Get me up to speed,” He ordered as Waters drove the SUV down back alleys.

“Insight failed,” Murphy said grimly, twisting in the front seat to look back at Brock. “Pierce is dead.” Brock barely had a chance to properly process that as Murphy continued.

“The Asset is completely MIA. HYDRA teams Seven and Nine have been dispatched to try and track him down but so far, nothing.” The slim man took a deep breath before continuing. 

"McKinnon and Jennings were killed when the Triskelion fell, along with everyone from teams Bravo and Echo. Lee, Russell and six other STRIKE sleeper agents are in SHIELD custody. Charlie team is still MIA. Everything else is still fucking chaos.”

Heavy loses. Brock cursed under his breath. For all that he and Jack had started to lose sight of the big picture, it didn’t mean that they—wait, Jack. Murphy hadn’t mentioned Jack.

“What about Rollins?"

Murphy’ swallowed and wouldn’t make eye contact. Brock felt as if his breath was punched from his lungs as Murphy said the two words Brock didn't want to hear.

The two words that he had refused to let himself think about. The two words that had kept slipping into his treacherous mind and he kept pushing away. The two words he refused to believe, because as long as he didn’t, they wouldn't be true. They couldn't be true. 

"Jack's dead." 

 

 


	4. June, Part 2

_Jack's dead. Jack's dead. Jack's dead._

Brock carefully pealed off the sweatpants and hoody in the locker room of an underground HYDRA base. His breath hitched as his eyes fell on the scarring and the red skin that mottled his arms and legs. Considering what it could have been, it was nothing. Still, it wasn’t pretty.

 _Jack's dead. Jack's dead. Jack's dead._  

He cleared his throat, shrugging into cargo pants and a black t-shirt. He wished Murphy had given him something with long sleeves. He flinched as the tight shirt pulled across fresh scars and raw skin.

_Jack's dead. Jack's dead. Jack's dead._

That mantra kept playing over and over in his head. He couldn’t get it to stop.

_Jack's dead. Jack's dead. Jack's dead._

It didn’t feel real. It wouldn’t feel real until Brock had solid proof, but any proof was buried under a few thousand tons of rubble and melted iron. So, maybe it would never feel real.

He wandered over to the sink, keeping his head down as reached a tentative hand to his face. Gauze and tape filled the sink as he peeled away the last of the bandages. He took a deep breath, steadying himself against the sink, and looked up into the mirror.

Holy shit.

He gaped at his reflection, raising a hand to his cheek in disbelief. A thin latticework of fresh scars crisscrossed the entire right side of his face. A pockmark pattern was stamped across his left cheekbone, continuing up his temple and into his hairline. A few thicker, redder lines sliced down and around his throat and disappeared under his shirt.

It was better than he could have ever hoped for. Somehow he still had his hair and his eyebrows. He still looked like himself. Brock huffed a raspy laugh.

The laugh got stuck in his throat. For all he had been vain, a big part of his worry was that Jack wouldn’t recognize him. That Jack wouldn’t want him anymore. That wasn’t something he had to worry about now. His vision blurred and his hands started to tremble.

A sharp rap at the door shook him from his downwards spiral. “Hey boss,” Murphy called. “Yeah, be right out.” Brock called, amazed that his voice didn’t shake.

 

 

Brock let Murphy lead him through the twists and turns of the underground facility, feeling numb. The other man nattered on about some sort of awesome new tech HYDRA had made just for Brock. “Kinda like Robo-cop meets a Terminator,” Murphy said excitedly. Sounded bulky and impractical, but Brock didn’t say as much. He forced himself to pay attention when he realized Murphy’s tone had gotten serious.

"There's something that needs your attention, boss," Murphy said grimly as they passed one of the many bullpen-like computer rooms. “Gimme a minute,” Brock said and he ducked out of the hallway, leaving Murphy and his protests behind.

He walked through the mostly empty room and sat down at a computer. He logged in under Jack’s account. He figured it would take them a little longer to trace it back to him that way.

He didn’t really know where to start, but he started digging. He looked into files about the super soldier serum, the Winter Soldier program, Centipede, anything relating to any experiment HYDRA conducted in the field of human enhancement within the last ten years.

Nothing.

Nothing that fit with what had happened to him. Nothing that fit with what Coulson talked about. Nothing until Brock stumbled across a folder labeled WINTER’S KNIGHT.

The name sparked Brock’s memory. Folders he had seen a few times on Pierce’s desk. He had chuckled to himself over the pretentious codename. HYDRA always had a flair for the dramatics. He clicked on the file, only to find everything redacted. Jack didn’t have the proper clearance level to access it, which meant Brock didn’t either.

Not the it really mattered now. With most everything dumped on the internet for all to see, it was more than likely that it was out there somewhere, but that would take time to find. Time which he didn’t have as Murphy called impatiently from the door.

 

 

Brock let the other man lead him through the twists and turns of the complex, finally reaching a thick door. Murphy turned back to him, almost apologetically. "I'm sorry we have to do this now," Murphy said quietly. "But it really can't wait."

As he pushed open the door, a blood-curdling scream echoed into the hallway. Brock steeled himself as Murphy led him into a small, unfurnished room. Brock had been to this base twice before, enough to know that this was one of the base’s many soundproof interrogation rooms.

Drake lounged against the wall near the door, arms crossed over his chest and face stoney. Gallagher stood in the middle of the room, bam-stick in hand. He stood over the quivering body of a third man. The man’s hands were bound tight behind his back and blood flecked the ground around him.

Gallagher looked up, stepping back as Murphy strode boldly into the room. Brock swallowed, clasping his hands behind his back. He always hated interrogations. He had the unpleasant history of experiencing them first hand. It tended to affect a persons perspective. 

Murphy grabbed the man by the hair and pulled him to his knees. The man gasped as his head was yanked roughly back and Brock almost gasped with him. Under all the blood and bruising, the scrapes and electrical burns, was Hunter. 

"What is this?" Brock said quietly, enforcing iron-control over his voice. 

"Why don't you tell him, huh?" Murphy growled, yanking Hunter's head even further back. "Why don't you tell him how you betrayed HYDRA? How you betrayed us all?" Brock forced himself not to flinch as Murphy slammed his fist across Hunter's face. Hunter fell hard on the concrete, blood flying from his nose and mouth. 

“Tell him how Fury got tipped off that SHIELD was compromised,” Murphy spat, grabbing Hunter by the hair again and yanking him back to his knees. "Tell him how you planted clues for him to find. Tell him!" 

Brock kept his eyes glued to Hunter. The man spat blood, but because of the angle Murphy was keeping his head, it just bubbled past his lips and spilled down his chin. His eyes flicked up to meet Brock's. "Yeah," he rasped and Brock felt his stomach drop. “It was me.”

His eyes felt like they were boring holes in Brock. "What HYDRA has done....it's fucked up,” he continued, swaying in Murphy’s grip. “We weren't gonna make the world better. We were gonna burn it down and let HYDRA rule over the ashes—.”

Whatever Hunter was going to say next was cut off as Murphy backhanded him across the face. Only Murphy's grip on Hunter's hair kept the man from sprawling to the ground again. "Shut the fuck up," Murphy spat.

Brock turned as Gallagher came up beside him, a 9mm Glock in his hand. He held it out, eyes cold. Brock took in silently. He checked the clip out of habit, sliding it back into the chamber and clocking the slide with a snap. The sound echoed through the empty room.

He slowly walked forward until he stood right in front of Hunter. Murphy let go of him, taking a couple steps to the side. Hunter swayed without Murphy's grip to hold him steady. He looked up at Brock with resigned acceptance and maybe a hint of disappointment. 

"Just do it," Hunter said quietly. 

Brock made his decision then. His gaze flicked up to the security camera mounted in the corner of the room. "Feed's disabled," Drake reassured him with a nasty smirk. "No one’s gonna see what happens in this room.”

Brock raised his arm, nestling the barrel between Hunter's eyes. “Good.” Brock said grimly, flicking the safety off. Hunter’s breath hitched.

BANG! BANG!

Gallagher and Drake's bodies dropped to the floor with dull thumps. Brock had never liked either of them. Gallagher was slimy with the female agents, and Drake had a cruel streak a mile wide.

He whirled back around, gun clocked on Murphy. The young man stood in open-mouthed shock, staring down at the bodies of his fellow agents. His eyes flicked back up and Brock could see the shift in them. Murphy's jaw clenched and his eyes grew hard with rage.

"Don't," Brock pleaded as Murphy's hand hovered towards the sidearm strapped to his hip. "Don't do it, kid," he whispered as Murphy's hand closed around the Glock.

"Traitor," Murphy hissed, yanking the gun from its holster. BANG! Murphy's body hit the floor, eyes glassy and staring as blood began to pool beneath him. 

Brock swallowed thickly, tearing his eyes away from the mess and dropping to a knee beside of Hunter. “Can you walk?” he asked quietly as Hunter turned to him with wide, shocked eyes.

“Yeah," the other man breathed. ”Okay," Brock said, tucking the Glock in his waistband and hoisting Hunter up from under the arms. “Let’s go.”

 

 

  
Brock stopped only long enough to snatch a first aid kit from a supply closet along with a prisoner hood to hide Hunter’s face. He lied through his teeth to get past the minimal security checkpoint, but everything was still in such an uproar that they managed to get to a car without much hassle.

He loaded Hunter into the passenger seat, pausing to cut the zip ties from Hunter’s wrists before jumping behind the wheel. He ripped the GPS tracker from underneath the steering column, tossing it out the window as they roared out of the underground and up onto the quiet street above. Brock didn't stop until they were a good two hours outside the city limits before pulling the car under an overpass and parking in the shadows. 

"Okay, let's get you patched up," Brock said, spreading the kit out across the hood of the car. He snapped on gloves and Hunter opened the passenger side door, swinging himself to sit sideways on the seat. 

Brock helped Hunter out of his bloody shirt, wincing as he exposed the damage underneath. Bruises bloomed across the mans chest and ribs, intermixed with the electrical burns from the bam-sticks. His face was a bloody mess, sporting a broken nose, split eyebrow and lip, and extensive bruising. Three of his fingers were broken and his wrists were chaffed raw from the zip ties.

"Fuck," he muttered, avoiding Hunter's gaze as he got to work. Hunter sat silently throughout the whole ordeal, not making a sound except for when Brock realigned his fingers.

Brock was cleaning up the small mountain of bloody gauze when he felt a gentle touch on his arm. "Why?" Hunter asked. Brock risked glancing up at the other man. He didn't see any hate or anger in the man's eyes, only honest curiosity.

Brock shrugged, looking down at his hands. "Like you said, it's fucked up.”

Jack had always been the one to keep his path straight and focused. Even when Brock started to waver on the bigger picture, Jack had centred him. He had reminded him of what was at stake, not for HYDRA but for them. Brock had stuck to the grand plan to keep them alive, to keep Jack alive.

Now that Jack was dead, the grand plan could go fuck itself.

The hand on his arm gave a gentle squeeze. "I heard about Jack," Hunter said gently. Brock swallowed painfully, shifting his weight uncomfortably. He couldn't let himself dwell on it, not now.

"You know about Jennings?" he asked quietly. He felt Hunter still beside him. He glanced up, seeing the other man nod stiffly. "I know you two were...." he trailed off, not really sure what the right word was. Hunter shook his head. “Everyone thought we were but....no,” he said quietly. “Maybe, in another life, we could have been but…,”

A heavy silence fell between them. Brock mentally shook himself, clearing his throat. "I have a safe house in Colorado. Unless you had a better idea.” Hunter shook his head. “I’ll tag along for now. I have some contacts further West. We should ditch the car.”

Brock hummed in agreement. "I have something I need to do in town first. I'll ditch it then and find us a new one." Hunter shook his head. "Too risky. We should —,“ 

"It's important." Brock's tone brokered no room for argument. He ignored the long look the other man sent him, focusing on packing away the first aid kit. "Alright," Hunter said finally. "We should at least wait until nightfall."

 

 

  
Under the cover of darkness, the two men snuck back into the city. Brock had Hunter drop him half a mile from his intended destination. The other man would ditch the car and take care of finding new wheels. 

Brock walked down the streets, a cap he had found in the back of the SUV pulled low over his eyes. He skirted around the outside of the old brick building and climbed carefully up the fire escape. Once he reached the right floor, he gripped the railing with both hands and vaulted over to the balcony a few feet over. His legs buckled on impact and he white-knuckled the railing as pain shot up his shins.

He slide his fingers under the latch on the sliding door and jiggled. The lock slipped out of place with ease. Brock had promised to fix it months ago but never ended up having the time. Not that it mattered now. 

He grabbed the gun he had tucked into the back of his pants and gently slide the door open. He moved quietly through the apartment and into the bedroom. He grabbed the two duffel bags from under the bed. He didn’t even bothering differentiating between his and Jack's clothes, just shoved whatever he grabbed first into one of the bags. 

He snatched the small black box that contained their wedding rings from where it sat on the dresser, shoving that in as well. He and Jack decided it would be better, safer, to not wear their rings. Instead, they had kept them on the dresser. It almost made it feel more special, like it was something for just the two of them.

Next stop was the weapons locker, hidden behind one of the floor-length mirrors in their home gym, the contents of which were flung into the second bag. Jack had rolled his eyes when Brock had it installed, but Brock knew he had secretly liked it. A small panel behind the framed photo of the city skyline revealed a small emergency kit with multiple passports, burner phones, and a few thousand in cash. 

Brock didn't even stop to look around, just slung the bags over his shoulders and left the way he came. He couldn't linger. Not just because it would be reckless to do so, but because Brock wouldn't be able to keep it together if he did. 

Hunter picked him up in a beat up old Land Rover five minutes later. Brock hauled himself into the cab, tossing the bags into the back seat as the car roared out of the city. 

 

 


	5. June, Part 3

A couple hours later and Brock insisted on taking over driving duties, seeing Hunter starting to flag. It took Hunter less than three minutes to fall asleep in the passenger seat, wrapped in one of Brock's old hoodies and hopped up on the heavy duty pain meds Brock had grabbed from his medicine cabinet.

Brock glanced to the side of the road, spotting a twenty-four hour gas station up ahead. Another glance at the fuel gauge and he pulled off the road and into the station. He was just finishing topping up the oil when he noticed the stares an elderly couple were giving him.

The moment he looked over, they glanced away, seemingly embarrassed. It was highly unlikely that they were agents from either organization. As he closed the hood of the truck he caught sight once again of the ugly burn scars scattering down his arms, and grimaced.

He walked around to the back of the truck and stripped off the black shirt in favour of a light long sleeve from his bag. It wasn't until he had pulled it on and noticed the sleeves hung to his fingertips that he realized it was one of Jack's. 

He scrubbed a hand across his face, leaning back against the car. He couldn’t afford to fall apart now. They weren’t safe here. They probably would never be truly safe again but right now they were too exposed and they had to move.

He glanced up, seeing the elderly couple watching him again. This time they had a pitying look on their faces. If there was a more useless emotion, Brock didn’t know what it was. He let out a sharp breath as he climbed back into the drivers seat.

He pointedly ignored Hunter, feeling the younger man’s eyes watching him. He turned the key, engine roaring to life, and sped out of the gas station.

 

 

 

 

Brock pulled his cap down lower over his sunglasses as he ducked into an internet cafe in a small town in West Virginia. The trip to Colorado was taking far longer than it could as both Brock and Hunter agreed on staying off main highways and avoiding large cities as much as possible.

He slipped into one of the stations near the back exit and pulled up a browser. Searching for _Winter’s Knight_ came up with some kids book, a DJ, and a video game so he got more specific. He added HYDRA, SHIELD, Pierce, and even his own name. Nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing. Brock was beyond frustrated. He was about to give up when some back channel conspiracy theorist’s blog caught his eye. He opened it, scrolling and scrolling until he found what he had been looking for. In full and unreacted. 

Brock scanned through it, feeling ill. His breath hitched when he got to patient IDs and his eyes landed on a familiar number. He read it twice just to make sure. It was his service number, back from when he was in the marines. He scrolled through the article a second time before wiping the internet history and getting out of there in a hurry.

 

  
Brock drove through the rest of the day, waving off Hunter’s offers to take over. He needed something to focus on. He drove well into the night, finally getting too tired to continue. He considered waking Hunter to take over but the young man was sleeping so peacefully Brock couldn’t bring himself to disturb him.

He pulled off onto a side road, parking in the cover of a cluster of trees. Farmland stretched out all around them, long rolling fields dissected by picket fences. He dozed for a bit in the front seat, but found it difficult to stay asleep.

Brock moved to sit in the back of the truck, wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket he had found in the backseat of the truck. He sat and tried to not think of anything. He tried not to think about Insight, about all the people who wanted them dead.

He tried not to think about _Winter's Knight_. He still didn’t know how to process what he had read; _In an attempt to build on the ashes of previous failures, HYDRA synthesized a new era of super soldiers._ God, that blogger had been so pretentious.

According to the files, a new serum was designed in the wake of the disastrous attempt to reinstate the Winter Soldier program. Instead of drastic enhancements, it worked more subtly; focusing on accelerated healing abilities while also improving eyesight and reflexes.

The fact that they had tested and perfected it on other poor schmucks before dolling it out to _‘HYDRA’s chosen’_ , as the blogger put, didn’t reassure Brock in the least. They had still done it without his knowledge or consent.

He supposed this was, at least in some small way, how Winter must feel. He could almost laugh at the irony of it all. Being made the handler of an asset who had been experimented on without his consent while having the same thing happen to him. Well, same minus the brainwashing and torture.

He gazed up at the stars, trying not to think about it anymore. He tried to pass the time identifying the constellations. He used to do this with Jack at the cabin, where it got so dark you could see galaxies. They’d sit out on the back deck, or down by the lake, and Jack would tell him the names of every single one. They always got a chuckle out of _Hydra_. Sometimes, if he got Jack drunk enough, he would tell Brock the mythology behind them.

The stars started to blur together and Brock felt his throat tighten. So much for thinking about nothing.

He didn’t know what to do now.

He really didn’t, beyond the immediate plan of _‘get to the cabin’_. Any other plan, any daydream or fantasy he ever entertained of an _‘after HYDRA’_ had always revolved around Jack. Everything always revolved around Jack.

And now he was completely lost.

Brock slammed his fist into the metal side of the truck bed, letting the pain clear his head. He felt Hunter stir inside the truck and scrubbed a hand across his eyes in a hurry. He wasn’t about to let anyone see him like this.

Brock opened the driver’s side door only to find Hunter already adjusting the seat. “I got it, boss,” he said with a half smile. Brock sighed, hopping into the back instead.

He laid out, using one of the bags as a pillow, and was asleep before Hunter had started the engine.

 

 

  
A couple days later and they found themselves somewhere in the middle of Texas, parked on the side of the road with burgers and shakes spread out across the hood of the truck. Brock kept an eye on Hunter as the younger man ate. He hadn’t had much of an appetite lately.

“If I finish all my meal, may I have a treat, Mother?” Hunter snarked around a mouthful, obviously seeing Brock watching him. “Asshole,” Brock muttered without really meaning it.

“Hey, so,” Hunter said, stealing a fry from Brock’s container. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but how do you not look like hamburger meat? You had a fucking building fall on your face.”

Brock choked on his milkshake. “Put it bluntly, why don’t yah,” he said. Hunter grimaced, fingers fidgeting at his cup. “Sorry,” he said, actually looking a little ashamed. “It's fine,” Brock said gruffly.

He wiped his fingers on a napkin, stalling for time. “You remember when I was in the hospital after Richfield?” Hunter nodded, looking grim.

“I…uh…apparently got approved for a….program…” Brock worried at his lip as Hunter raised his eyebrows. “A…serum of sorts,” Brock muttered, trailing off. “You’re shitting me,” Hunter breathed. “Are you shitting me!?”

Brock winced. “Not that serum. Not quite.” He amended, heaving a sigh when Hunter just stared at him. He wasn’t going to get out of explaining this one.

“They experimented with a version of the serum years back, trying to create something more powerful than even Winter,” Brock explained, unconsciously using the nickname he had given the Asset. “It didn’t go well, made the subjects too aggressive. So they decided to try the opposite, using it to just barely enhance the subjects. Faster healing, improved eyesight and hand-eye coordination, that kinda thing.”

Hunter whistled, impressed. “I didn’t know,” Brock said, looking down at his scarred hands. “I mean, I guess I shouldn’t complain now, considering, but…I would have liked to know what I was being signed up for.”

Silence stretched between the two men, making Brock more than a little nervous, before Hunter finally broke it. “So this makes you….what, like a slightly superior soldier?”

“Ha ha,” Brock said dryly, collecting his trash and heading back to the truck. “Above average?” Hunter continued, hopping into the passenger seat as Brock started the truck. “Tolerable? Sufficient? Mildly improved?”

“Okay, okay, stop it!” Brock snapped, trying to restrain the smile that tugged at his lips. “Hey, did the program have a codename?” Hunter inquired, struggling to keep a straight face. HYDRA always did have a flair for the dramatics. Brock sighed. He’d never hear the end of this one. He toyed with lying but wasn’t sure he could come up with something convincing enough on the spot.

  
“Winter’s Knight,” Brock forced through clenched teeth. “Not a fucking word!” He snarled as Hunter opened his mouth. He was sure whatever the younger man was going say would be something sarcastically clever and completely at Brock’s own expense.

Hunter just chuckled softly and tuned the radio to a classic rock station as they turned back onto the freeway.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will see a certain someone making an appearance, so stay tuned...


	6. June, Part 4

  
Brock kept his head down as he ducked into a small grocery store in a town he’d never heard of while Hunter was gassing up the truck across the road.

He rounded the corner of one of the isles and came face-to-face with one of the many people he had hoped never to see again.

It took Natasha Romanoff less than three seconds to recognize him. If she was surprised, she didn’t show it. She didn’t draw on him yet, but Brock knew if it became a western style stand off, she would win in an instant.

“Rumlow.”

“Romanoff,” he replied, mind whirling as he tried to come up with a way out of this one. Nothing immediately came to mind. “You’ve looked better,” she said mildly.

“Had a building fall on my face,” he said sarcastically. “Going on a little trip?” She asked, as if they were neighbours whose kids went to soccer together. “I could ask the same thing,” Brock drawled, shifting his weight into a more balanced stance. “What the hell are you doing in Amarillo?”

“Arresting you, apparently.” Brock huffed a laugh, exuding boredom as his heart hammered in his chest. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”

“Wanna bet?” she asked, subtly sliding a foot back. “Don’t make this any messier than it has to be.”

Brock’s mind scrambled. Then he blinked as a memory suddenly snapped into place. The day the Triskelion fell. The day Brock’s world came crashing down. Dispatch had called him over the radio. _“Sir, the council has been breached. Black Widow’s up there.”_

“You were there.” Romanoff’s brow furrowed. “You killed him, didn’t you?” He said softly. She shifted her weight, eyes wary.

“Did you at least do it quickly?” He said, taking a step. “Or did you just leave him to bleed out slowly as the building crumbled?” He spat those last words, taking another step.

Romanoff pulled her sidearm with a smooth and practised motion, levelling it at his heart. “I don’t know what your talking about.”

“Bullshit,” Brock growled, any sort of composure he had now long gone. “Don’t lie to me, you bitch!”

Her finger tightened around the trigger before something smacked into the back of her head. Her eyes rolled up and she collapsed, unconscious. Brock’s eyes flicked up in shock, taking in the man who stood behind her.

A dark canvas jacket and t-shirt stretched over impossibly broad shoulders. A ball cap pulled low over pale eyes, bruised with dark circles underneath them. Dark, unruly hair curling around a jaw covered in a few weeks worth of stubble. A hint of silver peaking out from the man’s left sleeve. Brock’s eyes widened. Shit.

The Winter Soldier stared back at him calmly, not even sparing a glance to the super spy unconscious at his feet. He had been MIA for months, ever since HYDRA had sent him to kill Steve Rogers. Obviously he had failed and so had whatever programming HYDRA had forced into his head. Brock was glad, even if it was gonna be the last thought he had. The kid hadn’t deserved what had been done to him.

Winter knelt, scooping up the gun from Romanoff’s limp fingers. Brock forced himself to relax. If this was it, so be it. It was a fitting end, he supposed. Better than rotting in an underwater prison for the rest of his miserable life, or getting shivved quietly in his cell while awaiting trial.

To Brock’s surprise, Winter tucked the gun into the back of his jeans and nodded towards the door. “We should go,” he said softly. Brock stared at him dumbly.

“What?” Brock asked dumbly. The kid looked at him with those pale eyes, unreadable as always but that hundred yard blank feel was gone. “Why?” Brock asked, honestly curious why the kid hadn’t ghosted him yet.

“Because I remember you.”

 

 

“What the fuck?” Hunter exclaimed as Brock jumped into the passenger seat while Winter climbed in the back. “Just drive!” Brock snapped. Hunter spun the wheel, tires skidding as the truck sped from the parking lot.

“We got made,” Brock said, grimacing. “What?” Hunter said, turning shocked eyes to Brock. “Romanoff was there,” he explained. “I don’t think she was here for us, but it doesn’t matter now.”

“And him?” Hunter asked, looking a little nervous. “He was…there too?” Brock said lamely. Hunter rolled his eyes, turning the truck off the main freeway and heading further South. “Okay, we’ll ditch the truck in the next town, maybe double back a bit and head up further South before getting back on track,” he suggested. Brock nodded in agreement, twisting in his seat.

“Winter? What—,”

“My name isn’t Winter,” the man interrupted, pale eyes turning to Brock. They were unreadable as always, but something was different. A subtle shift in them that had been missing before. “Okay,” he said slowly.

The man didn’t say anything else, looking out the window. Brock sighed, turning back around. There was a long silence before he spoke again, Brock straining to hear his quiet reply.

“It’s James.”

 

 

  
Six hours, a new truck, and three states later, they were once again parked on the road with burgers from some greasy roadside diner. Brock left Hunter in the cab of the truck and walked around the back to where Winter— no, James sat on the tailgate. Brock hopped up beside him, opening the big paper bag he had in his hands.

“Here,” he said, holding out a wrapped burger. “I assume you can eat solids now.” James glanced at him, eyes unreadable, before taking the burger. They sat quietly for a while before James finally spoke up.

“Why?”

“Why what?” Brock said around a mouthful of beef and tomato. “Why did you care?” James asked, looking down at the unwrapped burger in his hands. “I don’t know what you mean, kid.” Brock said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“A lot of it,” James said, gesturing to his head. “It’s still confusing. But I remember you. You were kind.”

Brock snorted. “I don’t think—,”

“You were,” James interrupted. “I had a handler, years ago. In Russia, I think. He was kind too. And they killed him for it.”

Brock swallowed, not feeling very hungry anymore. He set his burger aside, wiping his hands on his jeans. What was he even supposed to say to that? “I’m not a good man,” Brock said quietly.

“I didn’t say you were.” James said, squinting against the sun as he looked out over the fields.

Brock jumped as Hunter turned the radio on in the truck, soft jazz drifting through the open window. James turned at the sound, the sun glinting off his left hand. “We need to get you some gloves,” Brock muttered, taking another bite.

They sat in silence for a long while as the sun started its downward descent. “Did you know?” James asked suddenly, turning to look at him. “Know what?” Brock said, already finding this conversation very overwhelming.

James dug into the front of his jacket, retrieving a folded leaflet. He unfolded it carefully before handing it to Brock, who took it with a frown. It was a promotional pamphlet for the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian.

“Open it,” James said quietly. Brock did. At the top of the page was a picture of the Howling Commandos all gathered around Captain Rogers as he leaned over a map spread out on the hood of a truck. There was something ghostly familiar about the profile of the man standing in the foreground. He leaned casually on one arm, eyes downcast at the map.

Below it, under a blurb about the exhibit, was another photo. In it, Steve Rogers stood smiling that slightly sheepish smile of his. He had an arm slung around another, slightly shorter man. Short dark hair and a carefree smirk stared back at Brock and he felt the breath catch in his chest.

A little younger, hair a little shorter, eyes a lot less haunted, but it was him. It was definitely him. The tag line under the photo read _Captain Steven Grant Rogers and Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 1944._

“Holy shit,” Brock breathed, eyes snapping back up to James. “Yeah,” was all the other man said. “Holy shit,” he said again, still not quite believing it. “You said that already,” James drawled.

He’s so different, Brock thought as he stared at him. This was the real Winter, or James, bleeding through all that shit the Russians and HYDRA had forced into his head. Or forced out of his head was probably more accurate.

“You were a smart-ass back in the day, weren’t you?” Brock teased without realizing who he was talking to. James just smirked. “Apparently.”

“So, what’s your plan? You gonna find Rogers?” Brock asked. The smirk slipped from James’ face and he pursed his lips. “I almost killed him,” James said softly.

“Yeah, almost. You didn’t,” Brock pointed out. “I can’t,” the kid said, grimacing. “I call bullshit,” Brock said mildly. James just shook his head. “I'm not....I just can't.”

“Hey, no pressure,” Brock said, leaning against the side of the truck. “You can ride with us, if you want. We’re heading to Colorado.”

“I’m not going back,” James said, voice harsh as he turned cold eyes towards him, any hint of vulnerability long gone. Brock held up his hands in surrender. “It’s a personal safe house,” he said placatingly. “I don’t think HYDRA would take kindly to seeing us again either.”

James’ eyebrows raised in surprised. “What did you do?” He asked. Brock fidgeted, glancing away. “It’s complicated,” he said. James snorted. “You, uh…,” Brock stumbled, running a nervous hand through his hair. “What they did to you…. it’s fucked up.”

He could feel James’ eyes on him, but just kept staring down the road. “It’s fucked up and I’m sorry I played any part in it,” he finished, swallowing thickly. He heard James shift beside him. Neither man said anything for a long while.

Brock glanced back, seeing the still unopened burger sitting beside James. “Jesus,” he griped, steering the mood away from such dangerous territory. “Eat, will you? I’m not your fucking babysitter anymore.” James rolled his eyes, but picked it up anyways and began to eat.

 

 


	7. June, Part 5

They drove for the next four days straight, looping down south before backtracking and continuing their way to Colorado. Brock and Hunter switched off driving while James sat quietly in the back. Brock assumed the kid knew how to drive, but he never offered and Brock never asked.

It was awkwardly quiet with no one really knowing what to say or do. By the second day Brock was starting to get fidgety and by the third the mood was tense. Hunter tried to kept up a string of easy conversations with Brock. He even including James once in a while, but since the kid only responded with mono-syllabic words if he responded at all, Hunter didn’t try very often.

By the end of the fourth day, Brock was beyond tired. Sleeping in the cab of a truck was not ideal when one was healing broken bones. Everything hurt and Brock wasn’t taking any heavy pain meds. They made him feel ill and if he was being honest with himself, the numb feeling that came with them was a smudge too enticing.

He had driven for most of the day, needing something to focus on. It was easier than just sitting there. His mind tended to wander to things he didn’t want to think about if he didn’t have something to occupy himself with. There was only so many times he could clean their weapons with the limited supplies they had.

As the sun started to drift closer to the horizon, Hunter asked for the fifth time in half as many hours if Brock wanted a break. “I’m fine,” Brock said yet again through gritted teeth. This time however, Hunter wasn’t having it. “No, you’re not. You’re exhausted,” Hunter insisted. “Just lemme drive for a bit, get some sleep.”

“I said I’m fine,” Brock said, breath hissing out through his teeth. Hunter just shook his head, eyes concerned. ”Bullshit, boss,” he began but Brock rode right over him, all his frustrations finally venting out at the closest target.

"Don't call me that," he said through clenched teeth, his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. "Don't fucking call me that. Over half the people under my command are dead, either because I shot them or because they ended up on the wrong fucking side, whatever side that was. The rest are in custody or trying to kill us, and Jack—,”

Brock choked himself off, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a deep breath. He had said too much. Hunter winced, a red flush creeping up the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, I didn't—,”

"It's fine. Just drop it." Brock said flatly, glancing up at the rearview mirror as headlights flashed in the dusk light.

 

 

 

A few more miles down the road and Brock glanced up again, worrying at his lip as his eyes found the same grey SUV still following them. He turned off the freeway and took an abrupt left, following the signs towards the small truck stop town on the fridge of the highway.

"What're you doing?" Hunter asked as he was jostled against the door by the sharpness of the turn. "I think we're being followed," Brock said distractedly as he kept one eye on the rear view.

In his peripheral he saw James and Hunter glance out the back of the truck. Brock took a right and kept turning right before completing a full square through downtown.

Brock groaned as the same headlights kept on their tail. "Shit," Hunter said as Brock slammed on the gas and roared out of the town. The truck lurched forward. The car roared after them, riding up on their bumper. They all lurched as the SUV clipped them. Brock swore as the truck swerved across the road.

"Green duffle at your feet," he threw over his shoulder as James. A rusting followed by the clinking of metal on metal reached Brock's ears as he focused on keeping the truck on the road and out of the ditch.

Gunfire rang out, pinging off the truck and shattering the back window. The three men ducked down as bullets cracked through the cab of the truck. A snap of a clip was the only warning Brock got as James returned fire through the back window of the truck. The SUV swerved to evade as James fired into their windshield.

Hunter scrambled into the back seat, arming himself as two more SUVs roared up from behind the first. "HYDRA or SHIELD?" Hunter wondered as he snapped a clip into the second rifle from the bag. "Does it matter?" Brock gritted his teeth as more bullets pinged through the cab.

The second SUV had snuck up on their left, an agent hanging out of the passenger window. The bullets shattered Brock's side window, one slicing across Brock's forearm while another buried itself in his shoulder. "Fuck," Brock yelped.

"I'm good, I'm good," he snapped as Hunter clapped a worried hand on his uninjured shoulder. Brock cranked the wheel, careening into the side of the SUV. The startled agent couldn't get out of the way in time and crashed through Brock's broken window. Brock ripped the rifle out of the agents hand, tossing it into the passenger seat.

He punched the man twice in the face before yanking the wheel hard right, pulling away from the other car. Another quick turn and Brock smashed into them again. They careened off the road and slammed into a telephone pole with a hideous crunch.

"One," Brock counted grimly as Hunter and James continued to return fire on the remaining two vehicles. The black SUV roared up close behind them, two agents leaning out the side while a third popped up out of the sunroof.

"Hold on," Brock snapped and slammed on the brakes. All three men were thrown forward as the SUV slammed into the truck bed. The man poking out of the sunroof tumbled forward, losing his rifle. James took him out easily.

The whole truck lurched as the grey SUV smashed into their passenger door. Brock fought with the wheel as the two vehicles careened down the dusty road. Brock pulled his sidearm and fired across the truck cab at the driver. The SUV braked, tires skidding as it fell back behind the truck again.

A ear splitting screech clawed at Brock's eardrums as James ripped the back side door off his hinges. It fell, skipping down the road causing the grey SUV to swerve to avoid it. Brock watched in his side mirror as James stepped out on the running board, rifle tucked against his shoulder.

The tires on the SUV popped with a crack and the car spun to the side. Suddenly it was airborne as the driver lost control. It barrel rolled, bits of metal flying in every direction.

"Two," Hunter said with a chuckle which was cut off as gunfire erupted across the truck once again as the third SUV slammed into them. James clutched at the side of the truck, artificial fingers denting into the metal frame.

He swung casually up into the bed of the truck, returning fire. Brock watched as James strode calmly across and leapt up onto the roof of the SUV. He landed with a dull thump, firing through the sunroof they had left open.

He hopped back into the truck as the SUV began to slow, snaking an erratic path before drifting off the road and rolling over into a fence.

Brock blinked as James walked up the running board, opened the passenger side door, and swung himself back into the truck. "Three," he said quietly, placing the rifle at his feet.

Brock chuckled weakly, feeling giddy with adrenaline. “Just like Budapest,” he threw over his shoulder to Hunter. "Uh, boss?" Brock glanced back as Hunter held up a blood covered hand, looking at it with an almost puzzled expression.

"Shit," Brock snapped as he stopped the truck and scrambled into the back seat. "Shit, shit," he muttered, taking in the growing red stains on the Hunter’s abdomen and shoulder. "Shit."

They didn't have the supplies to deal with this. There was barely anything left in the small first aid kit Brock had taken from the HYDRA base.

"Sorry," Hunter whispered as Brock pressed his hands against the wound. "Don't talk stupid," Brock muttered, grabbing a loose shirt from the open duffel on the ground and wadded it up into a pad. "Drive!" He yelled at James who was still in the front seat, staring blankly back at them. "Find a pharmacy or something. We need supplies."

He jumped at a tearing noise. He glanced back as James tore another shirt into strips and wound them around Brock's bicep. Brock looked down numbly. He had forgotten he'd been shot. "Can't have you passing out from blood lose too," James muttered as he climbed into the driver's seat.

Brock glanced down at Hunter, who was indeed unconscious. Brock gritted his teeth as the truck leapt forward, roaring down the dusty road as the sun finally disappeared beneath the horizon.

 

 

 

They crept carefully through a small dark town, headlights off as to not draw attention to the ballistic nightmare that was left of their truck. Brock looked worriedly down at Hunter. The man was ashen and pale, eyes fluttering as he swam in and out of consciousness.

"Hey, hey," Brock said, snapping his fingers in front of Hunter's face. The kids eyes fluttered as he tried to focus on Brock. "You don't get to quit on me now, you hear me? Not after everything you've put me through." Hunter chuckled weakly. "Copy that, boss."

“Thought I told you to stop calling me that,” Brock chided. “Sorry boss," Hunter muttered. "Habit."

His eyes fluttered closed again. Brock kept a close watch on his shallow breathing as the truck slowed to a halt and suddenly James was opening the remaining passenger door and gently taking Hunter into his arms.

"You find a pharmacy?" Brock asked, stepping out into the back alley James had tucked the truck into. "Better," was the only answer he got as James led him towards a back door. The door’s lock didn't stand a chance against James.

A cacophony of noise assaulted Brock's ears as James led them past rows and rows of cages. Dogs barked and cats hissed at the dogs. Brock followed as James pushed through the swinging half doors and laid Hunter down on a long steel table.

Hunter's head lay limply to the side, his breathing shallow and laboured. James turned to him expectantly and Brock felt the colour drain from his face. Right. Shit.

"Uh, okay, yeah. Right," he stammered, tucking the gun into the back of his jeans. He grabbed scissors off a nearby instruments table and neatly snipped away Hunter's shirt. A neat, round hole in Hunter's lower side weeped slowly. Brock slipped a careful hand underneath Hunter's lower back. It came away clean. No exit wound. Brock cursed under his breath.

"Oh," a quiet voice from behind him made Brock spin on his heels, drawing his gun in a smooth motion. A young woman, dressed in scrubs, dropped her purse as she raised her hands in the air and started stammering. "I just came back for my phone, I don't want any trouble," she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. "You a vet?" Brock asked. "Are you a vet!?" He repeated insistently when she didn't reply.

"A tech," she squeaked, a tear trailing down her cheek. "I'm just a tech."

"It'll have to do," Brock muttered, taking a step towards her. He raised his hands when she flinched. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said softly. "Here." Brock tucked the gun into the back of his jeans and held his hands open to her. "My friend is hurt and we need to you help him."

The girl's eyes darted between him, Hunter were he lay bloody and unconscious on the table, and James who was standing menacingly beside him. "I don't know what to do. I've only assisted and that was on animals and--,"

"It's exactly the same," Brock lied. “Sort of. Look, we need your help, okay?” Her eyes flicked between him and James who was standing menacingly by Hunter, arms crossed over his broad chest. Her chin trembled and she nodded.

 

 

  
Brock sat nearby on a tall stool as the girl finished stitching Hunter up. "There," she said, voice only wobbling a little as she cut the last stitch and gently taped the bandage over his shoulder wound. She jumped as James stalked back in from having dealt with the getting rid of the truck. “I managed to stop the bleeding, but he needs a hospital," she continued. "I don't know what—,“

"Now him," James said, pointing a finger to Brock. "I'm fine," Brock insisted as the girl glanced over at him. "You have a bullet in your shoulder," James stated, glaring across the room at Brock. The girl paled but brought a tray of instruments over to Brock, albeit with shaky hands.

"What's your name?" Brock asked gently as she changed her gloves and began unraveling the bloody shirt James had tied around his bicep. "Jenny," she whispered. "That's a pretty name," Brock commented as she wiped away the blood from his wound. "My sister-in-law's name is Jenny." Those words felt ashy in his mouth.

He didn't want to think about Jenny right now. He could only imagine what she’d heard, if she even knew her brother was dead. Brock didn’t think he could be the one to tell her. She’d hate him, blame him, and she’d be right to do so.

He kept up a stream of pleasantries to distract himself as Jenny dug the bullet out of his shoulder and neatly stitched the wound closed. She had just finished stitching him up when the dogs started barking again. Brock glanced over at James, whose preverbal hackles went up.

"Are you expecting anyone else in tonight?" Brock whispered. "N-no," Jenny replied, eyes going wide. "No ones supposed to be in until tomorrow morning. I only came back because I forgot my phone, I wouldn't have even-,"

"Okay, okay. Shhh shhh,” Brock soothed, hopping off the stool and gently pulling her down. James hopped off the counter, pulling his gun from his jeans and made his way cautiously to the swinging doors.

Brock watched as he peered around the corner and then ducked back behind the counter. He signalled to Brock across the room, fingers flying. Three men. Armed.

"Okay, Jenny?” Brock whispered. "I want you to get under this counter, okay? And I need you to be very, very quiet."

He ushered her under the counter, pulling the stool in front to block her a bit. "Don't move," he whispered. He made his way over to James, keeping low. His fingers flew as he outlined the plan, only to have James shake his head and respond with a different one. Brock gritted his teeth, annoyed, but had to admit the kid had a good idea.

He nodded and counted down from three. It was over in seconds. Brock took down one, while James handled the other two. They moved in perfect sink together, eliminating the threat with deadly precision. Then they heard a muffled scream from behind them.

Brock whirled, bringing his glock up to bare as a fourth man dragged Jenny from her hiding place by the hair. “Don’t move,” the man said, pulling Jenny in front of him like a human shield, gun aimed at her temple.

Brock could have kicked himself. Sloppy. A standard tac teams had four men each, regardless if it was SHIELD or HYDRA. Brock should have known something was up when James only counted three.

“Let her go,” he said quietly. “Just drop the gun, Rumlow,” the man sneered. “It’s over. No one’s coming to help you.” Brock kept his face neutral as he realized the man hadn’t seen James. He felt James melt further back into the shadows behind him. He kept his focus on the man in front of him.

The man tightened his grip on Jenny when Brock didn’t move, prompting a small whimper from the girl. Her eyes were wide and scared as they stared back at Brock.

“Hey, Jenny, eyes on me,” Brock said, catching her attention. “It’ll be okay,” he promised. “Hey, hey, easy!” He snapped as the agent pressed the barrel of the gun closer against the girl’s temple. “Then drop the fucking gun!”

“Okay, okay,” he conceded as he raised his hands to the side, stalling for time.

“Drop it,” the man snapped. Brock carefully leaned down, setting the gun on the ground. “Okay, just take it easy,” he soothed. “Now kick it away,” the man ordered. Brock did as he was told, kicking it to the side. It slid under a nearby cabinet. “Happy?” he said sharply. The man just sneered, levelling his gun at Brock’s head.

That was his first, and last, mistake.

Suddenly James was there, snapping the man’s elbow in a direction it should never go. He shrieked, the gun falling with a clatter from limp fingers. James twisted under the agent’s arm, coming up behind him and calmly snapping his neck.

Jenny stared down at the man at her feet with wide shocked eyes. Brock swooped in, grasping her by the shoulders and turning her away before she could start screaming. “Hey, hey, go on. Get out of here.” She didn’t have to be told twice and was out the back door in seconds.

Brock turned to James, only to find the man staring blankly down as the agent at his feet. “James?” He asked cautiously, taking a step forward. James flinched slightly, hectic eyes darting up to find Brock’s. “I didn’t think….I just…,” he fell silent, eyes rooted downwards.

“Oh, no. No, you don’t,” Brock snapped, taking a step forward. “You do not get to fall apart on me now, you hear me?” James blinked, whatever look was in them a moment ago disappearing. “I’m not,” he grumbled, checking the clip in his Sig. “I’m fine.”

“Good,” Brock said, releasing the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He spared a quick glance at the dead agent at his feet. He couldn’t remember his name, but he had been HYDRA. Brock wasn't sure if that made it better or worse. “Grab Hunter," he snapped, scooping up the agent's discarded gun. "I’ll find us a ride.”

 

 

 

Dust spit from the tires of an beat up old van as they left the small town behind. Brock leaned back in the drivers seat, one hand hanging lazily on the steering wheel. Hunter was sprawled out across the back seats, tucked under a big blanket they had found in the trunk and hopped up on pain meds from a pharmacy they had raided on the way out of town.

Brock cast a glance over to James. The former HYDRA assassin was staring out the window, tension rolling off him in waves.

"You keep thinking that hard, something's gonna snap," Brock teased, trying to shake the kid out of whatever stupor he'd fallen into. James sighed, rubbing a hand across his eyes.

"You wanna talk about it?" Brock offered gently as the truck cruised along the freeway. A long beat of silence followed, broken only by the rumble of the engine and Hunter's snores.

Brock hadn’t really expected the kid to take him up on his offer. If he were in James' shoes, he wouldn't want to talk about it either, especially not with someone who helped subject him to brainwashing and torture. So Brock was sufficiently startled when the kid spoke up again.

"I killed a man in his apartment while his two year old watched from her playpen," he said quietly. "I killed a woman in her car after I ran it off the road. After I beat her husband to death in front of her. I was told to make it look like an accident." His face crinkled in thought. "I think I knew them."

"Jesus," Brock muttered as he steered the truck out of the way of a massive pothole. "You asked," James said defensively, crossing his arms over his chest and slumping further down in his seat.

"I didn't mean....." Brock swallowed around the lump in his throat, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. "None of that’s your fault," he said quietly.

If James heard him, he didn't react. "I still remember their faces," he said, staring out the window as scrub bush and trees whizzed by. "Every single one. I dream about them sometimes." He took a beat before adding softly. “I don’t want to kill anymore.”

Brock didn't know what to say to that. They drove in silence for a long while. The stars twinkled above them, shining bight with no city lights to blot them out.

"What happened to my other handler?" James suddenly asked. Brock frowned, confused. "What other handler?"

"The one with the scars," James said and Brock felt his stomach drop. "He'd always double check my gear before a mission.” Brock swallowed, looking out the windshield. He could feel James' eyes on him.

"He didn't make it," he said with iron-control, hands gripping the steering wheel until he felt his knuckles creak. "He died when the helicarriers crashed." James’ eyes were sharp as he looked at him, but Brock kept his focus on the road. "I'm sorry,” James said finally.

"Yeah, me too kid," Brock said softly.

Silence once again settled in the truck. When James spoke again, his voice was hesitant and quiet. "Do you...," he fumbled, running a hand through his long hair. "Did you ever....wash my hair?"

Brock huffed a startled laugh, caught completely off guard. It had been their last mission together before Insight. Point blank kill. The kid had been covered in blood and brain matter.

"Wassit?" Hunter slurred from his horizontal position, startled awake by Brock's laugh. "Hey, you remember Bosnia?" Brock grinned into the rear view mirror, shaken from his melancholy mood.

"Fuck, do I remember Bosnia," Hunter laughed. "You mean Project Bath Day?" Hunter dove into a dramatic retelling. Brock chuckled, glad to see Hunter’s colour improving. Mid way through the story, James’ eyes began to look lighter, like a little bit of the weight he carried had lifted. He actually laughed softly at Hunter’s antics.

 

 

 

 

That evening they pulled into a motel, Brock stating they all deserved to sleep in an actual bed for a change. He got them a room with two queen beds and a pullout couch and James helped Hunter get settled while Brock picked up pizza as well as a few other necessities like toothbrushes and deodorant.

They ate and watched shitty cable until everyone was yawning and then Brock helped Hunter to the bathroom. After getting Hunter in new clothes and propped up comfortably in one of the beds, Brock jumped in the shower. He closed his eyes, letting the warm water soon raw feeling skin and sore muscles.

Brock pulled on clean briefs and shirt before stepping out of the bathroom. “All yours,” he said, tossing James a fresh pair boxers and a shirt that had belonged to Jack. It would be a better fit to James’ broader frame than Brock’s anyways. James startled, catching the clothes. He looked a little unsure but slipped into the bathroom all the same.

Brock towelled his short hair dry, casting a quick look over Hunter, who was currently flipping through one of the complimentary magazines. “I don’t think my body’s beach ready, boss,” he said mournfully. Brock’s lips twitched. He was glad Hunter was feeling good enough to make jokes. “You take your pills?”

“Yes, Mother,” Hunter said with a sigh. “Your mother should have downed you at birth,” Brock muttered, toss his towel over the back of a nearby chair. “What makes you think she didn’t try?” Hunter replied cheekily. Brock was saved from having to come up with an answer as the bathroom door opened and James stepped out. His damp hair hung in tangles around his face.

Brock grimaced. He dug into the bag and pulled out a small package he had picked up earlier. He tossed them at James, who caught them with a frown. He glanced up at Brock, looking puzzled. “For your hair,” Brock explained, pointing to the packet of elastics in James’ hands. “If you want to get it out of your face.”

He flushed as James just continued to stare at him and busied himself with opening the pullout couch to hide his embarrassment. “Man buns are all the rage right now,” Hunter explained as Brock pulled the bedding out and threw a couple pillows down.

 

 

 

  
That night in Brock’s dreams, Jack was alive. Brock could see the back of his head from the kitchen where Jack was sprawled across the couch, book in hand like always. Brock walked over and perched behind him on the arm of the couch. He rested an elbow on the cushions, fingers playing with Jack’s hair. It was soft and free of product for once. Just how Brock liked it.

Jack reached a hand back, sliding his palm over Brock’s cheek and cupping the back of his neck, nails scratching lightly. Brock leaned into the touch, inhaling Jack’s scent of cinnamon and gun oil.

Suddenly, Brock was falling. He landed hard on the floor, air rushing from his lungs on impact. Beside him lay Jack, half pinned under a support beam as the Triskelion crumbled around them. His eyes were wide and staring and blood trickled from his lips as debris rained down around them. The ground shook as Brock tried to reach him, but he couldn’t move. He tried to call out, but couldn’t make a sound.

The floor dropped out from under him and Brock was falling again. He slammed into concrete and hands grabbed at him, pulling him up. Too many hands.

Richfield’s face swam into view, twisted in a nasty smirk. It always came back to Richfield. Every time Brock closed his eyes, he was back in that small concrete room. He had never dealt with it, not really. He had just gotten good at hiding it. He learned how to not scream in his sleep, how to not thrash around so he wouldn’t wake up Jack.

So Brock didn’t make a sound when he jerked awake, shirt soaked through with sweat. He froze out of habit, struggling to control his breathing as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He frowned when his eyes met wall instead of window. He sat up, quietly gasping for air, as his eyes took in the dingy motel room.

His eyes flicked to the two beds across from him. Hunter lay on his back, snoring quietly, but James was awake, having offered to take first watch. His sharp eyes almost seemed to glow in the darkness as they stared back at Brock.

Brock ran a shaky hand across his face and flipped back the covers. He could feel James’ eyes on him as he pulled on his jeans, shoving his bare feet into his boots. He snatched up his wallet and a room key and was out the door without a backwards look.

 

 

 

Brock was sitting on the van’s back bumper when James found him, cigarette dangling from his lips. Brock didn’t look up as James sat down beside him. They sat in silence as a semi truck roared by the little motel. Brock took a final drag before tossing the cigarette butt away, another already to his lips.

Jack would have rolled his eyes and made that disapproving noise of his if he had been there. Jack hated it when Brock smoked. But Jack was dead, so Brock figured it didn’t matter anymore. Brock was halfway done his second cigarette by the time James finally spoke. He only said four words, but it was enough.

“I get them too.”

Brock froze, cigarette halfway to his lips. He glanced over, but James wasn’t looking at him. He was looking up, arms crossed casually over his chest. His hair was pulled back in a low, messy bun.

Brock swallowed. He had nothing to say to that, so he just held out the packet of cigarettes instead. James took one with a nod, lighting it before taking a long drag and exhaling through his nose like a pro.

“They don’t taste the same,” he said, making a face. That pulled a laugh from Brock, who shook his head, once again marvelling at how surreal it all was. They sat quietly after that, trading the pack and lighter back and forth until Brock could barely keep his eyes open. James snubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe before leading Brock back inside.

“I’ll keep watch,” was the last thing Brock heard James say as he collapsed back into bed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the feedback! Keep it coming! The support from you guys is amazing!


	8. June, Part 6

A week later and Hunter left them at the New Mexico border, stating he had contacts there that could get him out of the country. He made the offer to Brock and James, but both declined. Brock didn’t know why James did, but he decided not to push it.

It was a bittersweet yet short goodbye as they dropped Hunter off at a bus station. Hunter left contact information in Brock’s burner phone, saying that if Brock ever needed anything, he’d be on the next flight back to the states. Brock swallowed thickly. He would never admit it, but he was going to miss the man.

“Take care of yourself, boss,” Hunter stated, clapping a gentle hand on Brock’s shoulder. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Unlikely,” Brock grumbled, pulling the younger man into a quick hug. “You’re taking all the stupid with you.” Hunter just childishly stuck his tongue out at Brock. A quick wave to James and he was gone.

Brock turned back to find James rigid, every fibre in his body completely tense. “James,” he asked cautiously. James’ eyes flicked up to his. He swallowed, blinking owlishly. “You good?” Brock asked, knowing by now the signs of when the kid got hit with a flashback.

“Yeah,” came the hoarse reply as James seemed to shake himself lose from whatever he had got stuck on. “Yeah, just a headache.”

“Okay,” Brock said, not completely convinced as they jumped up into the new truck they had acquired earlier that day.

 

 

 

A few hours later and Brock found himself in a tiny grocery store in a town so small he would be surprised if its population exceeded single-digits. He pulled the ball cap down lower over his eyes, clocking the security camera mounted in the corner. He needn’t have worried. The wires were hanging unconnected beneath it. Brock chuckled as he browsed the shelves.

He grabbed Gatorade and snacks and various other road trip appropriate foods. It appeared that James had a sweet tooth that was making a comeback as of late, so Brock grabbed chocolate and gummy candies.

His eyes slide to the calendar hanging on the wall as the girl rang up his order. A lively picture of a puppy decorated the month of June, with big black Xs crossing off almost all the days. Only two were left unchecked. Brock caught sight of the date and forgot how to breath.

"You okay, Mister?" The girl asked, holding out his bag to him. "Yeah," he said roughly, tearing his eyes away from the calendar. "Yeah," he repeated, slapping a few bills down on the counter and bee-lining it out the door. "Hey Mister, your change--," the girl called after him, but Brock was already out the door.

He hopped into the drivers seat of the truck, tossing the bag into a startled James’ lap. "What's wrong?" James asked, gaze sharp as it darted over Brock as the truck roared back onto the road. "Nothing," Brock said shortly, turning on the radio.

A couple minutes down the road and Brock made a quick stop at the edge of town, running into the small town pub that doubled as a liquor store. He bought them burgers and ignored James’ raised eyebrows at the bottle of tequila that sat at the bottom of the bag.

 

 

Brock drove until his eyes started to blur. He drove long after James had passed out, head resting against the truck window. He drove until the sky started to brighten and the birds started to chirp.

Brock pulled the truck off the road, following the signs for a lookout point. He put the truck in park in the lot next to a massive bluff. James blinked owlishly, sitting up but Brock waved him off with a gruff “Stay with the truck.”

He hopped the security fence and climbed down the sharp embankment to the bluff. He sat on the very edge, legs swinging out over empty air. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the small velvet box that contained his and Jack’s wedding rings. He grabbed the thin chain he had picked up in town earlier. He carefully strung first his and then Jack’s onto the chain before slipping it over his head.

The rings hung together, resting in the middle of his chest. It felt better than wearing them somehow. Brock fiddled with them, his eyes blurring. He shook his head and took a long swig straight from the bottle. He kept drinking as the sky started streaking pinks and reds, relishing in the burn from the alcohol.

He had always hated tequila, but it was Jack’s favourite so it seemed appropriate. He drank until he lost feeling in his fingers. Well, more feeling anyways. He was doing a pretty good job of death by alcohol poisoning when footsteps crunched in the gravel behind him.

“I said to stay with the truck,” Brock said, proud that his words barely slurred. The footsteps didn’t falter and Brock turned to glare at James as he took a seat beside him.

The kid said nothing, just held out his hand for the bottle. Brock handed it over without a word, watching as the young man took a long swig. He frowned when the kid put the bottle down an arms length away. “Oh, I think you’ve had enough,” James drawled.

“Well, fuck you too, kid,” Brock muttered, stumbling to his feet. The world tilted dizzyingly, the edge of the cliff looming. Vertigo hit Brock like a ton of bricks and he felt himself pitching forward.

Hands grabbed him and pulled him back from the edge just in time. Brock collapsed back into the dirt against a broad chest, strong arms wrapped around his torso and shoulders. Brock kicked himself free, scrambling a few feet away from the other man.

“Dammit,” James spat. He said something else, but Brock wasn’t listening anymore. Hot tears had started to slide down his cheeks and he looked away, embarrassed. He cupped a hand over his mouth to stifle the sobs that bubbled at his lips.

It took a minute, but he finally got himself back under control. He wiped his eyes hurriedly on his sleeve, chancing a look over at James. The other man wasn’t looking at him, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

“Tell me about him,” James said softly into the silence. “What?” Brock croaked. James glanced over, eyes as unreadable as always, briefly flicking down the the rings that hung around Brock’s neck. “Tell me about him.”

“What could you possibly want to know?” Brock snapped, scrubbing at his face. “Anything,” James said, shrugging. “What kind of firearm he preferred, how he liked his coffee—,”

“Black, four sugars.” Brock said quietly, surprising himself. James fell silent and Brock could feel his eyes on him. “And Desert Eagle.”

Brock braced his elbows against his knees, gazing out over the rolling hills. Jack would have loved this place. “He liked photography,” he continued softly. “He was good at it. Like career good, if he had wanted it.”

Now that he had started, Brock didn’t seem to be able to stop, every little quirk and odd, endearing habit of Jack’s spilling from his lips.

“He put peanut butter on his pancakes and syrup on his bacon. He’d add the milk to his cereal as he ate it so it wouldn’t get soggy. He loved to read. He could read for hours. Had a soft spot for Jane Austin, but you didn’t hear that from me.” James cracked a small smile at that.

“He loved the smell of cinnamon,” Brock continued. “He was an absolute neat freak, god help you if you left a towel on the bathroom floor. He could snap a man’s neck with his bare hands and yet was scared of needles. And he liked to cook, was good at that too. There wasn’t much the man couldn’t do. I mean he could even fucking juggle.”

Brock swallowed around the growing lump in his throat. “I didn’t deserve him,” he said softly. “I never did anything to deserve him and now he’s dead, and it’s too fucking late to try.”

James said nothing and they sat as the sun fully crested the hills. “It was our one year wedding anniversary,” Brock whispered finally. “Nine fucking years together and we didn’t even get—,”

Brock bite the words off, feeling the tears starting to come back. He cleared his throat noisily, swiping a hand across his eyes. “How are you okay with this?” He wondered, trying to steer the conversation away from himself. “Weren’t you born in the twenties?”

James shrugged. “Not my place to interfere with what makes someone happy.”

“I just,” Brock explained as James raised an eyebrow, realizing he had been staring at the younger man “I didn’t expect…how are you handling everything so well? No offence, but based on previous experience, I would have expected you to be a complete wreck by now.”

James cracked a half smile. “Both of us can’t freak out at the same time, it’d be irresponsible.” A surprised chuckle burst out of Brock. “Right again, kid.”

“I am at least fifty years older than you,” James said mildly. “Hardly fair,” Brock said, happy for the banter. It was like reflex. He didn’t need to focus on it, yet it distracted him all the same. “Brains and beauty. What’s left for me?”

“Good bone structure?” James offered. “That’s it,” Brock said, getting to his feet far more cautiously this time. The world spun and he felt a steadying hand on his arm as he regained his balance.

“ ’m fine,” he said gruffly as he began to make his way back up the path . “Leave it,” he added as James bent to pick up the abandoned tequila bottle.

“Just….just leave it.” Brock said quietly, eyeing the bottle where it sat half full and sparkling in the morning sun. James nodded, an understanding look in his eyes, and together they carefully made their way back up to the embankment.

 

 

 

 

As it turned out, James wasn’t kidding about just not freaking out at the same time. Brock had a feeling it was only a matter of time before something happened. The flashbacks were happening more frequently now. Nothing much would come of them, it was more like James would just short circuit, freezing and staring blankly into middle space.

They had found a small roadside diner on the boarder of Colorado. They slide into a back booth, one with a good vantage of both the doors and the kitchen, ordering without hassle. All day breakfast. Brock called that a win.

He was halfway through his meal when he realized that James had stopped eating. He immediately glanced around, on high alert for any threat, but froze when he looked back at the man across from him. “James?” Brock asked cautiously.

Small tremors were racking the kid’s body, his jaw muscles jumping as he clenched his jaw. His hands were clenched into fists on the table and his breath was uneven. His eyes were blank and staring, like he was seeing something far away. Shit.

“Hey, hey James,” Brock said quietly, glancing around nervously. There were only a few patrons in the diner, plus two waitresses, a cook, and a dishwasher. Still, too many witnesses.

“James,” Brock said again, reaching forward. Stupid idea. He really should know better by now. James’ metal arm lashed out, knocking Brock’s coffee cup to the ground with a smash. He caught Brock around the wrist and gripping tight. Brock gritted his teeth and managed not to cry out.

He gritted his teeth against the pain, hyper aware that everyone was staring at them now. “James,” he hissed, contemplating whether to try and pull free or to just brain the kid across the face with the napkin tin. Neither presented as the brightest ideas.

On impulse he reached out and grabbed the kid’s other hand. “Fucking fags,” a voice growled somewhere behind him but Brock ignored it, focusing only on James.

“Eyes on me, Solider,” he ordered, slipping into the tone of voice he had used in the field. James’s eyes snapped up to his, watery and over-bright. “That’s it. Eyes on me,” Brock said, desperate to deescalate the situation. “You’re good, you’re okay. I gotcha.” Brock kept up the soothing mantra, not breaking eye contact. He gripped James’ other hand tightly, trying to ground him.

“Breathe, easy,” he said as the James’ breath hitched and stuttered. “Just breathe with me, nice and slow, yeah? Nice and easy.” He carefully tried to slip out of James’ grip.

The metal finger’s just clenched tighter, grinding Brock’s wrist bones together. Brock blanched white and hissed through his teeth. “You’re gonna break my wrist, kid,” he ground out, digging his nails into James’ flesh and bone wrist.

The diner patrons were getting restless at the unusual disturbance, Brock could feel it. Just when he thought the kid actually was gonna snap his wrist, James blinked. Awareness and focus seemed to snap back into place and his eyes widened. He let Brock go with a whine of metal and bolted.

Brock snatched for the kid’s jacket but missed. He was out the door, bell chiming, before Brock could blink. “Fuck,” he muttered, tossing a handful of bills on the table before following James out of the diner.

 

 

Brock caught up with James in the parking lot. “Hey,” he called, reaching out and yanking James back. He felt a whoosh of displaced air and ducked on instinct as James lashed out with his metal arm. Brock grimaced as he blocked two body blows delivered by James’ flesh-and-bone fist. He never did learn. Jack had always told him he was too grabby for his own good.

Metal fingers, cold even through the black glove he had got James, closed around his throat and he found himself thrown across the parking lot. He landed hard, rolling to absorb as much of the impact as possible. His ribs protested as he bounced up to his feet, turning back on James and ready for two hundred odd pounds of super soldier to come barreling down on him.

But James just stood there, chest heaving and eyes wild. Brock raised his hands to the side, the universal gesture of ‘calm the fuck down’. Panic flickered through the other man’s eyes before they shuttered and James swallowed. He stalked back to the truck and hopped into the passenger side without a word.

Brock sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face as he hopped behind the wheel and pulled the truck back onto the road before they attracted anymore attention.

 

 

 

Two towns over and Brock pulled into a motel. James had said nothing the entire time, just staring blankly out the window. He stalked into the room, heading straight to the bathroom and closing the door with a snap. A moment later and Brock heard the shower turn on.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He had no idea how to deal with this. All he knew was that the kid was starting to fall apart and something had to be done. What, Brock had no idea.

He had just paid the pizza delivery guy when James stepped out of the shower. He was wearing the same clothes, but his hair hung in damp strands around his face. He sat down on the bed, ignoring the water that dripped down his shoulders.

He didn’t even look up when Brock sat on the bed across from him. “Ok, what’s going on?” Brock asked. James just shrugged, eyes staring down at his bare feet. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Well, tough,” Brock snapped. “Neither do I but we’re gonna talk about it because it’s becoming a problem.” James huffed, hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. “Fuck off,” he muttered quietly.

“Excuse me?” Brock said incredulously, leaning forward on his elbows. “I said fuck off,” James snarled, standing and moving towards the door. Brock slipped in front of him, getting up in his face like he used to do with Jack when the other man didn’t want to talk about something.

“Fuck off?” Brock growled. “Who exactly has been following who around like a lost puppy huh? You think I need this extra shit on my plate right now?”

“Then leave,” James growled back. “Like you said, you’re not my fucking babysitter anymore.” He shoved Brock back, but the shorter man just bounced right back in his face, too frustrated to realize that was probably a really bad idea.

“Why are you still here?!” Brock snapped. “Why me, huh? Because I guarantee Rogers is looking everywhere for you.”

“I can’t,” James ground out but Brock wasn’t gonna take that for an answer, not this time. “Bullshit,” he spat. “He’d welcome you with open arms and you know it. So why are you still following me, huh? Why!?”

“Because I’m not him anymore!” James shouted, eyes rolling wildly.

That brought Brock up short. For a second, he thought the younger man was going to take a swing at him, but then James took a deep shaky breath. He unclenched his hands, letting them hang limply by his side.

“I barely remember Steve,” he stated flatly. “Most of it I can’t tell if I’m actually remembering, or if it’s just because I read it in a book. It comes back in flashes, and it’s all jumbled and confusing.” James’ eyes flicked up to Brock’s. “But I remember you.”

Brock swallowed as James looked at him, eyes open and vulnerable. The lost look in them shook Brock to his core.

“I remember you, and Rollins, and our missions,” James continued. “I remember how you snuck me chocolate once, even though it made me sick. I remember Jack chewing out my prep team after a gear malfunction almost lost me an eye. I remember getting stuck in a blizzard with the two of you for days, and you taking care of me after I got shot in Bucharest.”

James took another shaky breath before adding quietly “I remember all that, but I can’t remember my mother’s face. I don’t even know her name.” Brock forced himself to take a breath, chest feeling tight as he ground his teeth together.

James grimaced, staring at the wall above Brock’s head. “I’m not….,” he stumbled, struggling to find the words. “I can’t be who Steve is looking for. I don’t remember how to.”

Brock scrubbed a hand across his face. How was he supposed to deal with any of this? “Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay, well….we’ll...figure it out.” James’ eyes met his, a little wary and yet with something else that was almost akin to trust. “We’ll figure it out,” Brock said again, and meaning it.

 

 

The next morning when James hopped up into the truck, Brock handed him a black notebook and a couple of pencils. James took if with a frown, flipping through the blank pages. “What…,” he began, trailing off in confusion.

“Winifred,” Brock said. James turned to look at him, face puzzled. “Your mother’s name. Winifred. Write it down,” Brock pointed to the notebook in James’ hands.“Write it all down. Whatever comes back to you. Maybe it’ll help you piece everything back together.”

Brock started the truck, pointedly ignoring the way James’ hands had started to tremble. They had driven a few miles before James took a shaky breath and said “Thanks,” so quietly Brock almost missed it. “Don’t mention it, kid,” he said, embarrassed. They drove for a while in silence before James asked “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“Her name.”

“Google is a wondrous thing,” Brock said with a shrug, keeping an eye on the roadsigns for their exit. “Goo—what?” James asked, brow furrowed in confusion. “What, you don’t…Jesus, of course you don't,” Brock chuckled, turning off the freeway and following the signs to Lake City.

“You’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” Brock explained, happy for the lighter break in the mood. “We should start you a list. Just the important things, like the moon landing and internet. And Cronuts.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just recently re-watched Civil War and saw the little notebook Bucky kept in the apartment, so I decided to tie that little detail into my AU.


	9. July, Part 1

Brock too a deep breath as they drove through the sleepy town of Lake City, Colorado. They made a quick stop to get groceries and then continued their way to the cabin. Brock pulled the truck up into the grassy clearing cautiously, eyes alert for any sign of activity.

They made their way carefully up to the cabin, armed and alert. Brock had taken to carrying Jack’s Desert Eagle instead of his own Glock. The kickback on the thing was vicious, but Brock just gritted his teeth and dealt with it. He remembered when Jack had brought it home. Brock had teased him to no end, but would be the first to admit that there hadn't been anything sexier than when Jack used it, the muscles in his forearms cording as he controlled the recoil.

Brock felt above the mantle at the front door, fingers closing around the spare key hidden there. They slipped through the door into the shadowy cabin. They swept it efficiently, Brock gesturing to James to clear the upstairs half loft.

Everything was exactly the way he and Jack had left it, albeit with a thin layer of dust over everything. Brock slipped out the back door onto the deck while James came back downstairs.

Brock’s eyes swept across the backyard. He took in the woodshed, the hammock they had forgotten to take in, the path down to the lake which he could just see sparkling in the distance.

He took a deep breath, leaning against the railing. If he was being honest with himself, he had been holding onto a small sliver of hope that Jack had somehow made it to the cabin. That it was all a mistake. That Jack wasn’t dead and would be sitting on this very deck. He’d turn to Brock with a smirk and say “What the fuck took you so long?” and it would all be okay in the end.

Brock should of known better. People like him didn’t get happy endings.

He mentally shook himself as he heard footsteps behind him. “You hungry?” He said, brushing past James and going to get the bags from the truck.

 

 

 

Later that night, after the sun had gone down, Brock found himself wandering out onto the back deck again. He sat in one of the reclining chairs, beer in hand. He sighed and closed his eyes. Maybe now he could finally be able to relax, even with the bittersweet memories the cabin now held.

Finding the cabin empty had been the final blow to any hope he held of miraculously finding Jack still alive. His heart weighed heavy as his brain finally began to truly accept the fact that the man he loved was gone. Brock wished he had told Jack that more often.  

He was startled out of his melancholy musings by the sound of shattering glass. He huffed, getting to his feet. Just five minutes. That’s all he wanted. Just five minutes of peace. That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

He found James at the kitchen, the remnants of a glass shattered at his feet. His right hand was dripping blood. “Jesus,” Brock griped, grabbing a dishcloth and wadding it under the kid’s hand to stop him dripping blood everywhere.

“Sorry,” James said softly, not meeting Brock’s eyes. Brock grimaced, inspecting the damage. Brock figured it would be completely healed within a few days but there were glass shards imbedded in his palm which would have to be removed. “Come on,” he sighed, leading James to the bathroom. He sat the kid down on the edge of the tub and pulled out the first aid kit.

“You couldn’t have been holding the glass with your other hand, could yah,” Brock muttered, grabbing tweezers and getting to work. James said nothing, not even flinching as Brock pulled shards of glass from his hand.

“You wanna talk about it?” Brock asked, cleaning the wounds and wrapping it tightly with gauze. James said nothing, face hidden behind a curtain of hair. “Okay,” Brock said with a sigh, packing away the kit. He went back into the kitchen and began picking up the glass. He was really getting tired of being the babysitter again.

“Leave it,” Brock ordered when James tried to help. He said it a bit sharper than he meant to and grimaced when James flinched back. “It’s fine,” Brock added, more gently, picking up the last of the large shards.

When Brock looked up again, James was gone. Panic gripped his chest before he was a dark haired head through the back window. Brock swept and wiped up the blood before stepping back out onto the deck.

James sat in the other reclining chair, black notebook in hands as he scribbled something in it. Brock took his original seat, picking up his abandoned beer. They sat for a while until James’ hand finally stopped and he set the book aside.

“I remembered falling,” James said quietly as the crickets started chirping out in the yard. Brock stilled, bottle halfway to his lips. “The look on Steve’s face when it happened. The cold. Waking up after strapped to a table.” James cut himself off, swallowing sharply.

“Well shit,” Brock muttered under his breath, taking a long pull of his beer. What else could he say to that?

They sat in silence for a long time time. Brock glanced up at the night sky. It was a clear night, with no lights from any big cities to observe their view.

“Stars are out tonight,” Brock commented mildly. James glanced up with a grunt of acknowledgement. Brock searched the sky before spotting a familiar cluster of stars shimmering in the distance.

“You see that pattern of stars that looks like an M?” Brock said, pointing. James followed his finger and nodded. “Thats Cassiopeia,” Brock explained. “And right below her, that’s Ursa Minor, and just there to the left, you see that boxy shape almost hidden behind the tree? That’s—,”

“Gemini,” James interrupted quietly. Brock turned surprised eyes towards the other man, but James just brushed long hair back out of his eyes and continued scrutinizing the sky. He pointed up above them and a little to the left.

“Cygnus,” he said, pointing to a cluster of stars that seemed to form a cross. “And right above us you can just about see Hercules.”

“Huh,” Brock said, glancing back up at the sky. “Showoff,” he muttered under his breath. “Someone has to make sure you stay modest,” James said mildly, keeping his eyes upwards. “Wouldn’t want your hats to get too small.”

Brock chuckled. He felt the hot flash of guilt bubble in his chest, guilt and an uneasy feeling that he was betraying Jack's memory somehow, but he shoved it down and finished off his beer. "Alright smart ass," he said, crossing his arms over his chest to hide the slight tremble in his hands. "What's the one below Hercules to the right?" 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but hopefully sweet. The next chapter will be longer, I promise.


	10. July, Part 2

 

Brock looked into the fridge and sighed. They were out of everything besides peanut butter and stale ramen. They had to do a run. He grabbed his keys and wallet, tucking a gun into his jeans and tossing a light jacket over top to hide it.

“I’m going into town,” Brock said as James raised an eyebrow from his spot on the couch. James set down his book without a word and shoving his boots on. “I don’t think—,” Brock started but James was already out the door and striding towards the truck.

Brock just sighed and decided it wasn’t worth an argument.

 

 

A couple hours later and Brock was paying for groceries in the local mom and pop store that had recently opened at the far end of town. James was browsing magazines in the corner as the elderly man behind the counter finished ringing everything in and Brock pulled out his wallet.

The man behind the counter put the last of the groceries in bags, casting a glance over to James before looking back at Brock. “Haven’t seen you before,” he said gruffly. “Just passing through?”

“Uh, I own a cabin a few miles out,” Brock replied. The man nodded, his eyes flicking back to James. He frowned, causing Brock to look over his shoulder in mild alarm.

James was standing very still, eyes staring into that blank middle space which happened whenever he experienced a flashback. “Hey,” Brock said calmly, taking a few steps forward but always staying in James’ sight-lines.

“You good?” He asked, pressing down the rising panic. They couldn't afford a repeat of the diner incident, not here. James blinked and seemed to shake himself loose. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m good.” He turned abruptly and stalked out of the store.

Brock took a deep breath, turning back to the man at the counter with an apology. “No apologies needed,” the man said, eyes shifting from wary to kind. “Iraq or Afghanistan?” He asked, nodding towards James’ swiftly retreating back. “Afghanistan,” Brock said stiffly, handing the man a folded wad of bills.

“Both of you?” The man pressed, eyes flicking over Brock’s face and hands. Brock grimaced but it was a good cover story. It would explain away his scars and any odd behaviour on James’ part. “Yeah,” he said, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

“I lost my son to Iraq,” the man said softly, counting out Brock’s change. “Four years ago.” Brock winced. “I’m sorry,” he said. The man nodded his thanks, handing over the change. “You’re a good friend, looking out for him.”

Brock shrugged, the lies rolling easily off his tongue. “He’s my little brother. Parents are both dead, so it’s just me and him. Figured this would be a good place to…sort shit out, yah know?”

“Well,” the man said, handing over the groceries. “You boys ever need anything, you just ask. The name’s Frank.” He held out a hand to Brock. “Chris,” Brock lied again, shaking the man’s hand.

“Thank you for your service, Chris,” Frank said sincerely. Brock couldn't reply to that. He just nodded and took the groceries. It took everything he had not to run out of the store.

 

 

The sun was starting to set by the time he and James got back to the cabin. They were making the trek up the rough path from the truck when something out of place caught Brock’s eye. A black motorcycle was tucked against the side of the cabin, mostly hidden in the shadows. Brock motioned for a stop. James froze, subtly shifting from weary to alert asset in the blink of an eye.

Brock dropped the groceries and pulled the gun from his waistband, eyes scanning for movement. Out of the corner of his eye he saw James doing the same.

Rogers’ had a predilection for motorcycles. So did Romanoff. It could be as simple as some of the local kids having a laugh, but Brock wasn’t about to take any chances. He led James up the path and to the front door of the cabin. He peered through the window. Everything was dark. Nothing moved.

Brock tried the door, finding it unlocked. He quietly slipped inside, James a shadow on his heels. Brock made his way through the darkening cabin. He motioned for James to check the loft as he made his way into the kitchen. Everything was as they had left it, save for the back door which was ajar, its curtains swaying in a light breeze. Brock cautiously made his way to the door and slipped outside.

A dark figure stood leaning against the railing, shadowed in the dusky light. The deck squeaked softly under Brock’s boots but the man didn’t look up. In fact, he didn’t react at all. He didn’t even raise his head, although he could clearly see Brock in his peripheral vision. Brock saw the dark silhouette of a gun tucked into the man’s jeans and tightened his grip on his own. Still, the man didn’t react.

The man took a deep breath, shoulders gently rising and falling. There was something very familiar about the silhouette of those broad shoulders.

“If you’re here to kill me, just get it over with,” he said, softly.

Only two decades of training and discipline stopped the gun from slipping right out of Brock’s numb fingers. The air was punched from his lungs and he couldn’t remember how to get it back.

This was a dream. It had to be. That or he had finally gone mad. His mouth opened and somehow he managed to find enough air to gasp out one single word.

“Jack?”

Brock saw the man’s entire body go rigid but he still didn’t move, didn’t even look up as his hands white-knuckled the railing.

“Jackie?” Brock whispered, hardly daring to hope.

Slowly, oh so slowly, the man turned. His hair was free of product and finger combed straight back, a softer version of his usual style. New scars decorated the side of his face and neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. Dark circles bruised under his eyes and his face was thinner than Brock ever remembered seeing it.

But it was him.

Brock’s hands trembled around the gun. His brain slowly caught up to the fact he still holding it and he lowered his arms, struggling to breath. Neither of them moved for a long moment, staring in frozen shock at each other.

And then Jack was in motion. Strong hands grabbed Brock by the front of his shirt and yanked. The air rushed out of his lungs as Brock was slammed against the side of the cabin. The gun fell from his fingers and landed on the deck with a loud clunk. Brock hissed as the scars on his back pulled against the coarse wood and his ribs protested the rough treatment. His hands came up automatically, latching onto Jack’s wrists as the bigger man crowded up against him.   
  
Brock looked up into bright green eyes that seemed to spark with intensity. Jack looked livid, the muscles in his jaw quivering as he ground his teeth together. His fists trembled where they gripped at Brock’s shirt, the muscles in his forearms practically vibrating.

Brock had never seen Jack so scared.

“Hey,” he said weakly. Jack just crowded closer against Brock, nostrils flaring as his breath came out in harsh bursts. “Hey,” Brock whispered again, rubbing small circles on the back of Jack’s hands, touch gentle in contrast to the taller man’s iron grip.

Jack swallowed thickly, the muscles in his jaw jumping. Slowly, Jack’s grip on Brock’s shirt relaxed and he sucked in a shaky breath. Brock looked up into green eyes bright with unshed tears. Jack leaned forward until his forehead was pressing against Brock’s, his hand moving to cup the back of Brock’s neck.

Jack’s breath hitched as Brock slid a hand up to behind Jack’s neck, mirroring Jack’s hold. Jack tightened his own grip, his entire body trembling. Brock placed his free hand on Jack’s chest. He could feel the other man’s heart hammering under his palm.

They stayed like that until Jack’s breathing evened and Brock had control over the tears that had threatened to choke him. “What the fuck took you so long?” Brock whispered harshly, trying to keep his breathing calm. Jack huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, almost a sob.

Brock reached up, to make sure Jack was real and whole. His fingers had barely brushed the side of Jack’s face when the younger man flinched back violently. “Sorry, sorry,” Brock breathed, hand hovering awkwardly above Jack’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure what to do next, where was safe to touch.

Jack solved his dilemma by gently taking him by the wrist, fingers holding over Brock’s pulse point. His eyes searched Brock’s with the same intensity as he had the day of Project Insight, pressed close together in that supply closet. Like Jack was trying to memorize Brock’s face, to burn it into his memory so he’d never forget a detail.

The slam of the screen door made them both jump apart as it echoed through the cabin. Jack had yanked out the gun he had tucked in his jeans and was kicking open the back door before Brock could blink.

“Whoah whoah,” he cried, slipping in beside Jack and placing a calming hand on the man’s arm as James stared back at them both, hands filled with the abandoned grocery bags. “It’s okay, it’s okay. He’s with me,” Brock breathed as Jack’s confused gaze flicked from Brock to James and back again.

“The milk was gonna spoil,” James said as he walked into the kitchen, completely ignoring the gun trained at his chest. “And you two seemed a little busy.”

Brock snorted as Jack slowly lowed his gun, looking like someone had just smacked him upside the head with a two-by-four. He looked over at Brock and raised an eyebrow. “It’s a…long story,” Brock said with a shrug.

 

  
Brock threw together sandwiches for them and they ate in the kitchen as Brock caught Jack up on everything that had happened to him and James over the last month. James kept his distance, giving them space. Brock kept the details vague. There were things that he didn’t want to discuss in front of an audience.

Jack didn’t offer up any explanation of what had happened to him, and Brock assumed he didn’t want an audience for that conversation either. He was jumpier, flinching away from any sudden movements and noises. Brock’s chest constricted painfully whenever it happened.

He took the time while they ate to really look the other man over. Jack had lost weight and muscle mass. While he was still lean and very fit, he was smaller now. Thinner. The dark circles under his eyes indicated it had been a good long while since he had a proper nights sleep. The new scars that slashed across his cheek and neck were still pink and healing. He had new scars across his hands as well, and a couple of his fingers were wrapped in bandages, indicating the possible loss of a few fingernails.

They finished eating and Brock began tidying the kitchen. At some point during the cleanup, Jack slipped away, carrying a small bag up the stairs to the loft. James left shortly after, slipping out the back door with a knowing look in Brock’s direction. Brock nodded his thanks.

Brock tossed the last dish in the sink and trekked up the steep stairs to the loft. Jack sat on the bed, hunched in on himself. He glanced up briefly as Brock got to the top of the stairs and then went back to staring at his feet.

Brock dragged a soft topped stool over, settling down in front of Jack. Their legs overlapped and Jack tensed as their knees bumped together. Brock reached out and gently placed his hands on the outside of Jack’s legs. “Talk to me,” he said quietly, eyes searching Jack’s face.

Jack huffed a breath, still not looking at him. He reached under his shirt, pulling free two long chains. From each one hung a set of dog tags.

Jack grabbed at one set, holding them up. Brock's eyebrows raised in surprise as he read his own name. He had wondered what happened to his tags. He figured they had been lost when they had pulled him from the rubble or after, during the chaos at the hospital.

"They told me you were dead," Jack whispered, voice thick and hoarse. "They threw these in my face and told me you were dead. And then they laughed.”

Brock's breath caught in his throat. So SHIELD had been the one to pull Jack from the wreckage too. They must have known that Brock had been rescued as well, but saw an opportunity to get information. They probably hadn’t expected Brock to survive anyways, so they had used him to try and break the younger man.

Brock swallowed painfully. “Did they….” Brock couldn’t finish the sentence. He really didn’t want to know the answer, in case his suspicions were true, but he had to ask. He had to know. His heart sunk as he felt Jack tense under his hands. Jack huffed a laugh, eyes still rooted to the floor. “Torture isn’t really SHIELD’s forte,” he said bitterly. “Still, they were angry so they did their best.”

Brock let a shaky breath hiss through his teeth. He forced himself to relax, realizing he had been gripping Jack’s legs hard enough to bruise. “It’s okay,” Jack whispered.

“No, it’s not fucking okay,” Brock snapped. “I should have…I didn’t…I thought you were dead. Murphy told me you were dead.” Brock clenched his jaw, a bitter taste in his mouth. He hadn’t even questioned it because it was Murphy who told him. He had trusted the man. Jack just nodded. “Makes sense. It took them a long time to recover all the bodies from the rubble.”

“Fuck,” Brock hissed, scrubbing a hand down his face. Jack didn’t respond to that. He just kept staring at the floor. Brock swallowed around the lump starting to grow in his throat. “Can you look at me?” He asked, a little sharper than he had intended. “Please?” He added when Jack didn’t move. “Come on, I know my face won’t be winning any beauty pageants now but it’s hardly Freddy Krueger,” he said with a little self-deprecating chuckle.

That bitter taste came back when Jack still didn’t look at him. Brock clenched his teeth to stop his chin trembling. He knew he looked a little different now. The scars had healed well, but they still lay scattered and thick across the side of his face, dissecting his eyebrow and stretching the skin shiny and tight across his cheek.

He hadn’t thought Jack would care, not after everything else that had happened. It appears he had been wrong. Tears stung his eyes and he pulled away. He moved to stand when large hands wrapped around his, tugging him back down.

“You think I care that the packaging’s a little dented?” Jack said in a harsh whisper, parroting Brock’s own words back at him from years ago when Jack had gotten the scar on his jaw. “I thought I’d lost you,” Jack continued. “And I didn’t know what the fuck to do next.”

Brock returned Jack’s grip, squeezing Jack’s hands in his. Green eyes finally looked up into Brock’s dark ones. “I…,” Jack started but cut himself off, jaw trembling. He was holding himself together by threads and it broke Brock’s heart. “Shhh shhh,” he soothed, gently cupping Jack’s face and swiping a stray tear that leaked from the corner of his eye.

“It’s okay. Let’s just…try and get some sleep, okay? We can talk more in the morning.” Jack nodded, clearly not trusting his voice. “Okay,” Brock said again. Jack reached up, roughly swiping a hand across his eyes. Brock acted on impulse. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asked in a hoarse whisper. Jack looked up at him, a little startled and maybe a bit confused by the question, but he nodded. Brock leaned in close, brushing his nose against Jack’s before gently pressing his lips against his.

It was sweet and gentle and a little hesitant but grew bolder by the second. Jack slid a hand up Brock’s neck and into his hair, pulling him closer. Brock slipped off the stool and landed on his knees between Jack’s legs.

He slid his hands up to settle on Jack’s hips as the taller man deepened the kiss. He sucked Jack’s bottom lip into his mouth, startling a groan out of him. Jack pulled away first, a little breathless with a hand fisted in Brock’s hair and pupils so dilated that they seemed to swallow all the green around them.

Brock smiled, leaning in to press one more kiss to Jack’s lips before getting to his feet. As much as he’d like to continue, they were both too drained and exhausted to be up for anything more.

He walked around to the other side of the bed, stripping off his socks and jeans as he went. He tumbled into bed with a soft sigh, rolling over on his side. He frowned upon seeing Jack hadn’t moved. “Would you prefer…” Brock stumbled. An icy feeling gripping his chest but he forced himself to ignore it. “I mean, I can sleep downstairs if-,”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jack interrupted harshly, pulling off his socks and then standing to remove his jeans. He crawled up the bed, lying face to face with Brock but leaving a good amount of space between them.

“It’s just…,” Jack chewed on his lip, eyes darting around the dark room. “I just…,” Jack tried again. “I don’t sleep too well anymore,” he said in a small voice.

“Me neither,” Brock whispered, taking one of Jack’s hands in his. He interlaced their fingers, pulling their hands against his chest. Jack’s brow crinkled as his hand came into contact with something small and hard resting under Brock’s shirt.

Brock reached up with his free hand, tugging at the chain around his neck until their silver wedding bands slipped free and fell into his palm. Jack said nothing,but the look on his face said it all and he squeezed Brock's hand gently. 

“You and me till the end, right?” Brock said softly, running his thumb across Jack's knuckles. A smile tugged on Jack's lips and Brock felt his heart leap. It was a small smile, a little sad feeling around the edges, but it was still a smile. And it was Jack. His Jack, alive and well and right in front of him. He slid closer, until their foreheads were almost touching and their noses brushed against each other. Jack's smile widened every so slightly and he pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of Brock's mouth. 

“Always.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You see, I told you I was going to give these boys a happier ending ;)
> 
> And I know I promised a longer chapter, but I ended up wanting to break it up a little more and have this moment play as more of a stand alone.


	11. August

Something wasn’t sitting right for Brock and it all centred around Jack. Sure, the younger man woke sweating and trembling in the middle of the night but they both did. They dealt with it together, giving the other space or soothing touches and murmured words of comfort, whatever was needed.

No, there was something else. Something more. Jack would finch if Brock came up on him from behind. He was tense all the time, like he had to be hyper aware to compensate for something. His hand-eye coordination had gotten sloppy too. It was subtle but Brock had started watching for it. Jack would sometimes over or under shoot when reaching for things.

Jack also wasn’t talking. Not just about what had happened to him, which Brock couldn’t blame him for. He hadn’t told Jack everything either, worried about how the other man would take it. No, Jack was hardly talking at all. He had always been the silent type, but never like this. It was starting to push a void between them, everything they were keeping unsaid.

One afternoon, after an extremely rough night during which neither he nor Jack got much sleep, Brock turned to James and flicked his eyes to the back door. James nodded slightly and a moment later he was grabbing his boots, announcing he was going for a hike. The kid could pick up on the subtlest hints and that was something Brock would be forever grateful for.

Brock waited until James was gone before turning back to Jack. The other man sat at the kitchen table, coffee mug clutched between his hands. Brock hoisted himself up on the counter, palming an apple and fiddling with it, not entirely sure where to start.

Well, might as well dive in the deep end, so to speak. “I killed Murphy,” he said, twisting the apple stem between his fingers. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jack start and look at him. “I killed him to save Hunter.” Brock had already told Jack about Hunter’s betrayal of HYDRA and subsequent rescue. He just hadn’t told him all the details. “Oh, and I was apart of a super soldier program without my knowledge, which is why I still have a face,” he added casually, glancing up to Jack’s startled, wide-eyed gaze. “Your turn.”

“The fuck?” Jack exclaimed, the first words Brock had been able to get out of him all day besides a grumbled _“Morning,”_ and _“We’re out of milk.”_ Brock shrugged. “We’ve both been holding out on each other. Figured it was past time. So,” he taking a bite of the apple and waving it in Jack’s direction. “Your turn.”

Jack clenched his jaw. Brock could see the muscles jumping. “There’s nothing to tell,” he said through clenched teeth. “Jack—,” Brock started but the other man interrupted him. “Look, unless you want the gory details of what happened during the six weeks SHIELD had me, there’s nothing else to say.”

“Bullshit,” Brock made himself say, riding right past the mention of Jack’s imprisonment. That was something for another conversation. He tossed the apple across the space between them. Jack flinched, his hands coming up to catch it. He did manage to catch it, but fumbled and almost dropped it. Not like his usual self, who could catch anything Brock lobbed his way, even if it was from behind his back.

“You see?” Brock exclaimed. “Your hand-eye coordination has gone to shit. And don’t think I haven’t noticed your depth perception has been off too. You’re obviously not blind, so it has to be some…thing…,” Brock trailed off as Jack went very still.

“Jackie?” Brock asked softly, a cold feeling spreading out from his chest. “Just the one,” Jack replied quietly, setting the apple down with exaggerated care. “It’s why my depth perception’s fucked.”

So many things clicked into place. Why Jack was so jumpy if you came up on him from behind. Brock now realized that it was only on the one side. That’s why he flinched back whenever Brock reached for that side of his face. Brock’s hands gripped the counter, the sharp edge biting into his palm.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered. Jack shrugged, eyes downcast. “Was figuring out how to tell you,” he said, absently tracing the grain patterns in the wood table top. “But _‘I’m practically useless now and cant even shoot straight’_ didn’t really seem like the best way to put it,” Jack said bitterly.

“Hey, shut up,” Brock snapped. “You’re not useless. You’ll just have to…relearn a few things, that’s all.” Jack snorted rudely. “We’ll figure it out,” Brock said softly. “We always do.” Jack just shook his head, but didn’t argue further.

They sat in silence until Jack furrowed his brow, like he had just remembered something. He turned back to Brock, eyes gentle. “You killed Murphy?” Brock flinched. He had hoped Jack wouldn’t circle back to that little detail. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” he said with a grimace. Jack gave him such a look. “Double standards much?” He said, voice rumbling deep in his chest. Brock huffed a breath, caught by his own words.

“They were gonna execute Hunter for leaking clues to Fury,” he said finally with a shrug, staring down at the floor. “I couldn’t let that happen. I shot Gallagher and Drake first, but I never did like them much.” Jack hummed in agreement but said nothing else, waiting for Brock to continue.

“He didn’t give me a choice,” Brock said quietly, knocking his heels against the cupboards beneath him. He didn’t know who he was trying to convince, Jack or himself. “I didn’t want….he didn’t give me a choice.”

He didn’t hear Jack move. For such a large man, he could move so quietly. Broad hands slid up his thighs to rest on his hips as Jack crowded up between Brock’s legs. Brock leaned forward, letting his forehead rest gently on Jack’s shoulder. He felt a hand slip up his spine to cup the back of his head and gentle lips brushed over his temple.

They stayed like that for a long while. Brock took a deep breath, breathing in the scent of gun oil and laundry soap and Jack. “And what’s this about you being a super soldier now?” Jack murmured into his hair. Brock huffed a laugh against Jack’s collarbone.

Jack just shook his head once Brock finished explaining. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Yeah,” Brock replied. “Our lives are fucked up,” Jack said mildly. “Yeah,” Brock chuckled, pulling back and looking Jack in the eyes. His throat began to close on itself, making swallowing painful.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he said in a harsh whisper, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “I can’t lose you, asshole.” Jack cracked a lopsided smile, butting his head gently against Brock’s. “Back at you, dumbass.”

 

 

 

  
Things got better after that and if Brock thought it was weird that James started disappearing every morning with a bag of guns, tossing a “Don’t panic if you hear gunshots,” over his shoulder as he left the cabin…well, Brock kept it to himself. He always returned after a couple hours with a satisfied air about him.

After about a week of this, James came up to Jack one morning and placed his Desert Eagle on the table in front of him. “Let’s go.” Brock watched cautiously as Jack stilled, wary eyes flicking up to James. “The fuck you on about?” he asked in a gruff voice.

“What do you think I’ve been doing the last week, shooting squirrels?” James asked impatiently. “I’ve been learning how to compensate for the loss of depth perception. Now let’s go.” He turned on his heels, snatching up a duffle bag that clinked ominously, and marched out the back door without a second glance.

Jack glanced down at the gun for a long moment, Brock could practically hear the gears turning in his head, before sighing and getting to his feet. He snatched up the gun, checking the safety was on before tucking it into the back of his jeans. “No, you stay,” Jack snapped as Brock moved to stand. “I don’t need any witnesses,” he grumbled, walking to the door and shoving his boots on.

A few hours later and Jack was storming back through the cabin with a sour look on his face. He beelined it to the fridge, not even bothering to take off his boots. He grabbed a beer and stomped out the back door before Brock could say a words. Brock turned a raised eyebrow to James who had trailed in quietly behind Jack. James shrugged. Brock just shook his head and grabbed a couple more beers before trailing after Jack.

  
The next few sessions finished with similar results. Brock eventually had to do a run into town for ammunition but it was worth it after the fourth session. Instead of stomping back into the cabin in a huff, Jack stole quietly up behind Brock who was in the process of reheating leftovers for lunch. He pressed his lips to the junction of Brock’s neck, nipping lightly at the soft spot under Brock’s ear before stepping away to dig into the fridge.

“You’re in a good mood,” Brock commented with a chuckle. Jack hummed his agreement, head buried in the fridge. Brock turned to James with a questioning look. James replied with a lopsided smirk.

Jack let Brock tag along the next time he and James went shooting. Brock followed them as they led him up a winding trail deep into the hills and lounged against a rock, sunglasses perched on his nose as he watched the other two shoot. Jack was a little shaky, not as accurate or as confident as he had been, but he was still a damn good shot. Brock couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

That night he pulled James aside and quietly thanked him. The kid just shrugged, flushing with what Brock saw to his amusement as embarrassment. “Might as well put these skills towards something good for once,” James muttered, slightly bitter sounding. Brock had nothing to say to that, so he just clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, squeezing lightly.

   
The three of them fell into a comfortable dynamic. Jack started cooking again, to both James and Brock’s relief. Neither wanted to eat anymore of Brock’s cooking than was absolutely necessary. Jack was also better at dealing with James when he was having a flashback or panic attack. Both were few and far between now as James’ mind seeming to have mostly sorted itself out, but they still happened on occasion.

The first time it happened since Jack had arrived, Brock was finishing dinner dishes when he heard a shattering crash from out on the back deck. He was at the door in an instant, calming words on his lips, but Jack was already there. He was kneeling in front of James, who was hunched over with his head in his hands. Jack was murmuring softly to James, talking him through his breathing. His eyes flicked up to Brock and he discretely flapped a hand in the older man’s direction, subtly telling him that he had this.

Brock was relieved. He had learned how to deal with James when he was like this out of necessity, not because he was good at it or knew what to do. Jack had always been better at it than he was, always knowing exactly what to say to steady James’ breathing, even back when they knew him as Winter.

As the weather began to get unbearably hot, they started spending more and more time down at the lake. Brock had been worried about James’ arm in the water, but Jack just laughed at him, stating that if the kid hadn’t electrocuted himself in the shower yet, it wasn’t going to happen now. They’d pack a bag with sandwiches and snacks and spend entire the entire day down there, lounging in the sun until it set and then staying to count the stars. Brock and James would compete to see who could name the constellations first, while Jack watched in amusement.

James got a part time job at the grocery store after Frank took a shine to him, something about the silent brooding reminding him of his dead son. Brock had protested the idea, but again it had been Jack who had shrugged off his worry, saying it would be good for the kid.

They did weekly runs into town for supplies and eventually made polite acquaintances with Barb at the pharmacy, Leanne and her daughter Jean who owned the little bakery, and Ralph at the liquor store. Daniel owned the gun store where they would restock their ammunition as needed. Brock even went shooting with him a couple times but they tried to keep their time in town limited.

They developed the reputation of the quirky and reclusive ex-military brothers who were all pretty messed up but safe enough that you didn’t have to cross the street with your kids. Brock and Jack both decided that it would be better, and safer, for Jack to be Brock and James’ brother-in-law. They sold the idea that he was the ex of a now-estranged sister who had left him when Jack had come home, claiming she couldn’t deal with his issues. It was a painful enough story that they only had to tell it once and, while people surely gossiped, it never got brought it up around any of them.

 

  
One morning when Brock and Jack, known as Chris and Sean in town, swung by the bakery, Jean practically started vibrating when she saw them. “Chris,” she said excitedly. “I just got a call from my friend Tammy who works at that animal shelter I was telling you about!”

Brock felt Jack’s eyes on him and he shifted his weight a little. Right. He had forgotten to have that conversation with Jack. “Anyways,” Jean continued. “She says they just got a new arrival at the shelter and she thinks she would be perfect for you guys! What do you think? Leadville is only a three hour drive away!”

“Only three hours, hmm,” Jack commented mildly, crossing his arms as he turned his whole body towards Brock. “I may or may not have put out some feelers,” Brock said hesitantly. “I told you I wanted to get a dog.”

“Yeah, a year ago,” Jack griped. “You told me that a year ago.”

“What should I tell her?” Jean said, interrupting the impending argument before it started as her eyes darted back and forth between Brock and Jack.

   
Three and a half hours later and Brock was stepping through the big glass doors of the Leadville Animal Rescue, Jack trailing silently behind him. A perky young woman with heavy blonde bangs was sitting behind the counter. She looked up with a smile as they entered. “Hello,” she said in an equally perky voice. “How can I help you?”

“Ah, yeah. Jean called ahead, said to ask for Tammy?” Brock said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. The young woman’s face lite up in a bright smile. “I’m Tammy. You must be Chris and Sean. Come on into the back and meet our lady.”

She led them around back, past many cages filled with dogs of all shapes and sizes. The noise was deafening. She lead them through into another room, although it was more like a long hallway. Rows of large kennels stretched down either side. Tammy lead them about halfway down before pointing to one particular gate.

Inside, curled up at the back of the room, was a medium sized ball of fur. “We’re pretty sure she’s a Border Collie Australian Shepherd mix,” Tammy explained. “We also think she’s about six years old. A little skittish but sweet as pie.” Brock couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her coat was long and silky, mostly white with black splotches down her body. Her eyes, ears and snout were ringed with black, while her hind legs and neck were stripped with a honey brown colour.

Brock spared a glance at Jack. The other man’s face gave away nothing. “Can I?” Brock asked, pointing into the kennel. “Of course,” Tammy said, opening the gate for Brock. The dog raised her head in cautious interest as Brock stepped inside. “Hey darling,” Brock crooned, reaching out his hand towards her. Immediately she pulled back, scooting against the back wall.

Brock took his hand back and sat down where he was, giving her the space to look him over and the time to get used to his smell. He took a slow breath to calm the anger building in the pit of his stomach. Now that he was closer he could see the scars that crisscrossed her muzzle, and the small chunk was missing from her ear. Brock hoped that, for their sakes, he never found out who had mistreated such a beautiful animal.

“What’s her name?” He heard Jack ask behind him. “She doesn’t really have one,” Tammy explained. “She had no tags or chip when she was brought it. We’ve taken to calling her Lady.”

“Lady,” Brock said, smiling when the dog’s ears pricked forward. “Suits you, doesn’t it sweetheart? That’s a good girl,” he murmured as Lady slowly moved forward, belly low to the ground and sniffed his hand. She delicately licked his fingertips before letting him gently slide his hand up the side of her face to scratch her lightly behind the ear.

“That’s a good girl,” Brock said again, noticing that she had heterochromia; one of her eyes a bright blue, the other a dark brown. Brock hadn’t believed in love in first sight before that moment. He glanced back at Jack with what he hoped wasn’t too pathetic a look.

Jack huffed a resigned sigh, crossing his arms over his chest. “The dog is not sleeping in my bed,” he said sternly, which translated into _the dog isn’t sleeping in our bed_ but Brock figured he could work on that.

   
Ironically, it was Jack that Lady took to the most. She liked Brock and tolerated James, something about the metal arm seemed to freak her out a bit, but she absolutely adored Jack. She followed him everywhere. She would lay at his feet and just stare at him. If he ignored her for too long, she would sit up with a whine and place her head in his lap until he caved and gave her scratches.

Jack put up a good fight but eventually, she won him over. Brock knew Jack had completely fallen under her spell when he found the two of them napping together in the loft one afternoon. Lady was curled up behind Jack’s knees with her chin resting on his ankle, both of them snoring softly. Brock just snapped a quick photo on his phone, and quietly retreated before disturbing them, smiling to himself the whole time. It finally looked like it was all going to be okay.

  
It was another two months before everything fell apart.

 

 


	12. September

Brock had never trusted the good times. He was always suspicious that something would come along to foul them up because, in his experience, something always did. So when that something finally happened, on an cool day in late September, Brock couldn’t really say he was all that surprised. He and Jack had been lounging in the kitchen, Lady at their feet with her head on Jack’s foot. Brock looked up with a frown as he heard the truck roaring up the driveway.

Both he and Jack were halfway out of their seats, hands staying to the guns that never left their sides these days, when James burst through the door. His face was grim, eyes sharp. He was in full soldier mode.

“They found me,” he said sharply. Jack and Brock both jumped to their feet, Lady whinging at the disruption and the hard tone of voice they were now using. “What?” Brock snapped. James just turned and stalked back out to the truck, leaving Jack and Brock to follow. He dropped the tailgate and threw back a bulky tarp to reveal four bodies. “Jesus,” Jack muttered as Brock recognized one as the deep-voiced ex-marine that had tried to take Rogers into custody with him in the elevator so many months ago. They were HYDRA.

“Frank?” Brock asked sharply, thinking about the elderly man James worked for, but James shook his head. “They tried to run me off the road just outside of town. They thought I was just passing through.”

“You’re sure?” Brock said sharply. “They didn’t know about us, or the cabin, or—,” James shook his head, interrupted Brock. “No. I made sure. They only knew about me.” The carefully blank look on James’ face told Brock to just trust his word and to not ask any more questions.

“Okay,” Brock said, running a hand through his hair. “Okay,” he said again, stalling for time to try and come up with a plan. They’d send more agents when the ex-marine and his team didn’t check in. They’d have to run. They’d have to—

“I need to leave,” James said, steady gaze flicking from Brock to Jack and back again. “Now. I’ll leave an obvious enough trail so they know I’ve moved on. They wouldn’t expect me to be travelling with anyone, least of all you two. They won’t come back looking.”

“We can’t ask—,” Brock started as Jack watched silently from behind, but again James interrupted him. “You’re not asking, I’m offering.” His eyes flicked back and forth between the two of them. “This is the best plan.”

Brock opened his mouth to protest but Jack beat him to it, albeit not voicing the same opinion that Brock would have. “I’ll pack you a bag,” Jack said quietly, stalking back to the house as he tucked his .50 cal into his jeans. “James,” Brock began but the younger man shook his head. “I’ll be fine,” he said with a small smile. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to see the world. Now’s my chance.”

“Bucharest is beautiful this time of year,” Brock said. James smile widened, his mouth pulling into that signature lopsided grin of his. “I got shot the last time I was in Bucharest.”

“Well yeah, but only a little bit,” Brock said with a smirk of his own. He glanced over his shoulder as Jack made his way down the path with a small black backpack in one hand and a helmet in the other. “Here,” he said holding the bag out. “Change of clothes, Glock with extra clips, cash, contacts for a guy in Portland who does amazing passports, and your notebook. And take the bike,” Jack added, handing over the helmet.

James took both, slinging the bag over his shoulders. “Thanks,” he said, eyes flicking between the two men. Brock just nodded, not completely trusting his voice. James gaze flicked briefly to the bodies in the back of the truck. “Don’t worry about that. We got it,” Jack said, clapping a hand on James’ shoulder before going to get the bike from where he had stashed it beside the cabin.

Brock pulled James into a quick hug, one he was surprised to feel the younger man return. “Hey,” he said, pulling away but keeping a hand on James’ shoulders. “Give Rogers a chance, yeah?” He squeezed lightly as he felt James tense under his hands. “I hate to admit it, but he’s one of the good ones. And he cares about you, a lot. Just…give him a chance.” James nodded jerkily, not convincing Brock in the slightest but at least he had tried.

James slipped the helmet on, buckling it under his chin as Jack rolled the bike up. James swung a leg over, sitting comfortably as he revved the engine. Another quick nod in Brock and Jack’s direction, then he snapped the visor down and was gone.

They waited until the sun was long set before driving the truck way out into the hills to bury the bodies. They burned their clothes after, just to be safe, and sat out on the deck to watch the sun rise before stumbling upstairs into bed. Brock watched in amusement as Jack struggled to keep his eyes open. It was a losing battle. Just as Jack’s eyes fluttered closed, as he drifted off to sleep, Brock leaned over and pressed his lips gently against Jack’s.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered into the silence. He felt Jack’s arm tighten around his waist, pulling him a little closer. Brock smiled and closed his eyes, falling asleep in Jack’s arms.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shorty but I ended up breaking the planned chapter up into two. I know I promised only one more heart-wrenching chapter, but now there will be two. Just to give fair warning, the next chapter will really hurt. The boys finally face some personal demons they've been desperately avoiding.


	13. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter contains drug use, drug addition, and withdrawal

Brock wasn't sure when he started noticing more changes in Jack's behaviour but he was starting to suspect something else was up. Jack was withdrawn, moody, and fast to anger these days. He had always been the calm one, the steady hand that would reign in Brock's hot headed tendencies. It wasn't anything that wasn't technically explainable, considering the abuse he suspected Jack had suffered at the hands of SHIELD. Brock could only guess what had happened to the younger man. Jack still refused to talk about it, but Brock had a gut feeling that there was more to it than just standard interrogation tactics. He couldn't put his finger on it exactly, he just knew there was more to the story.

It was a chilly afternoon when Jack decide to do a run into town and Brock decided to clean the cabin. Yes, clean. Nothing had been done since the spot clean that had been done when he and James arrived three months ago. He had done the bathroom and kitchen and was currently cleaning the upstairs loft where they slept, especially under the bed. Lady had a habit of hiding under there when she got scared. She also had a habit of shedding on everything.

Brock grumbled as he reached under the bed, pulling out their weapons stash, a couple duffel bags and a large amount of dust and dog hair. He grimaced as he fished out Jack’s bag. The thing had been shoved so far back Brock had to practically crawl under the bed to get it. He sneezed at the amount of dust that clung to it and gave it a shake. He frowned when the bag rattled.

He yanked the zipper open and his stomach dropped. He reached in and pulled on a slender orange bottle. He uncapped it, shaking a handful of small blue pills into his palm. He glanced back to the bag. There was enough in there to start a small pharmacy. Brock swallowed, staring down at the pills in his hands, feeling numb.

 

 

He was sitting at the kitchen table when Jack got home. Lady bounded up as the door opened, her entire body wiggling. He bent to give her a scratch, sending a quick smile in Brock's direction before slipping upstairs. Brock waited as Jack rummaged around upstairs. He heard a muffled curse, followed by a heavy silence. He heaved a deep sigh, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. This was the last thing he wanted to deal with. He was kicking himself for not noticing it sooner, for not figuring it out faster. He thought they had been doing so well.

Feet thumped down the stairs and Brock looked up to Jack standing in front of him. His jaw has set and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. He said nothing, just staring at Brock with an unreadable look on his face. "Looking for these?" Brock asked quietly, holding up the pill bottle he had been fiddling with. "I tossed the rest," he lied. There was no way he was going to throw out that much morphine, not with their predilection for injury. "You're lying," Jack said stiffly.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Brock asked, instead of acknowledging Jack’s accusations. "I know the signs, Jack," he added when Jack said nothing. It had all clicked into place once Brock had found the pills: the mood swings, the irritability, the trouble sleeping beyond what the nightmares caused, the disinterest in sex, in fact they hadn't slept together since being reunited. THe pattern of slipping away at random times while making all variety of excuses was another red flag. Brock had grown up in a rough neighbourhood, had run with a rough crowd as a teenager. Like he said, he knew the signs. He just wished he had clued in sooner.

"I have it under control," Jack said through clenched teeth, eyes flashing dangerously. Lady whined from where she sat at his feet. She didn't like his tone of voice. "Doesn't look like it," Brock said mildly, crossing his arms over his chest. He was baiting Jack, he knew he was. It was a dangerous game to play but in the past it had been the only way to get Jack to talk about something painful. The other tactic was to corner him and demand answers. That option was less than ideal under the circumstances.

Jack's face cloud with anger. "You had no right," he growled. "No right?” Brock said incredulously, half rising out of his seat. “My partner is hooked on painkillers!” Jack flinched back at Brock's words, his clenched fists trembling. "I had every right,” Brock snapped, staring boldly across the table.

"You don't understand," Jack muttered, shifting his weight. "Damn right I don't," Brock growled. Jack flushed, his breath hissing through his clenched teeth. Brock could see the tension rolling off the younger man in waves. He was ready to bolt. Brock took a breath, shifting into a gentler tone. "And I won't unless you talk to me."

"I can't," Jack ground out, eyes silently begging Brock not to push any further. "Don't give me that," Brock said quietly. "After everything that's happened, you don't give me that." Jack wavered and Brock was sure he was going to cave. Then something shuttered over Jack's eyes and he turned on his heels and stormed out, slamming the back door behind him.

Brock sat back down with a sigh as Lady scratched at the door, whining. She didn't like being left behind. She ran over to Brock, shoving her head in his lap. "I know, sweetheart," he murmured, scratching her behind the ears. "I know."

 

 

Brock thought about going after Jack, but he had a feeling if he confronted him again before the man had a chance to cool down, things would end badly. So instead he fed Lady and made himself dinner. As it got dark he turned the porch light on and trekked upstairs, Lady following at his heels. He pulled on a pair of sweats and a fresh shirt as Lady jumped up and curled in a ball at the foot of the bed.

He picked up the massive book Jack had been reading, figuring it’d be something to pass the time. He was only two chapter in, finding it all very dull, when he heard the back door open. He put the book down, waiting as Jack slowly came upstairs. He could barely look at Brock, sitting stiffly on the bed across from him.

Silence stretched between them. Brock wasn't going to be the one to start this conversation. It had to be Jack. Time ticked by and they continued to just sit. Jack didn't look at him once, his back to Brock as he hunched forward over his knees. All Brock wanted to do was to reach out and chase away the tension in those broad shoulders, but he knew Jack wouldn’t accept his touch right now. Instead, he leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes. Brock was not a patient man, but he was when it came to Jack. Brock was on the verge of falling asleep when Jack finally spoke. "I really don't want to talk about it." Brock took a deep breath, opening his eyes. “Yeah well, tough shit. You’ve made me talk about stuff I didn't want to.” Jack snorted. “You never talked about Richfield,” he accused. Brock flinched and Jack bit his lip, looking like he regretted what he had just said.

The silence stretched between them until Brock decided to break it. "The first thing I remember was waking up in the dark,” he began. “Brock—,” Jack started, twisting towards him with a pained look on his face but Brock rode right over him. "The next thing I remember was hanging by my wrists from the ceiling.”

"Stop it,” Jack growled but Brock interrupted him again. "They weren't very creative. It’s just that it never really stopped. They worked in shifts. Wouldn't let me sleep."

"I'm not listening to this." Jack moved to get up, but Brock’s hand snapped out, wrapping around Jack’s wrist and yanking him back down. The motion made Jack twist and come almost nose to nose with Brock. “Yes, you are,” Brock snapped, staring harshly into Jack’s eyes. “You're gonna sit there and you’re gonna listen because I wanna fucking tell you!” The younger man’s throat jumped as he swallowed, but he nodded. Brock let him go and Jack scooted himself further onto the bed, leaning against the headboard.

Brock took a steadying breath. This was not something he actually wanted to talk to Jack about. The memories were ugly and raw and the last thing Brock wanted to do was confront them. He still woke in the middle of the night from panicked dreams of concrete floors and darkness and pain. But he also knew that it was a give and take. If he expected Jack to talk about what happened to him, it was only fair that he do the same.

“Richfield was a smug bastard,” Brock said harshly. “Big fan of electricity. Never got his hands dirty though. He’d just watch with that smug look on his face.” Brock swallowed, collecting himself. “They didn’t drug me until the third day,” He chanced a look at Jack, who was watching him with this shattered glass stare. “After that, it’s all a blur until I woke up in the hospital. And you were there and I couldn’t trust that you were real. I kept thinking it was a dream. You know…you know how they taught us to disassociate? To slip into a fantasy to help deal with….unpleasant situations?”

He waited on Jack’s nod before continuing. “Yeah. I got really good at that.” Brock looked down at his hands. “I still get nightmares. Most nights, actually. I’ve just gotten good at hiding it so I don't wake you up. I didn't want you to….I couldn't let him take away more than he already had.” he finished bitterly. Brock clenched his hands into fists to stop them from trembling. “Jesus,” Jack muttered quietly. “I wish you’d told—,” he cut himself off sharply, realizing what he just said.

The silence stretched between them. “How did you get out of the building?” Brock asked gently, thinking to prompt something maybe a bit easier to start. Jack shook his head. “I don't know,” he said, clearing his throat. “Romanoff knocked me out and I woke up in a hospital. I was there for a few weeks before…,” Jack trailed off, struggling to pick up the pieces. “They, uh, they kept me pretty doped up and…,” Again, Jack stumbled, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he clenched his teeth..

“They didn’t…they saw an opportunity, I guess….those agents were sick fucks. They didn’t let me wean off the drugs after I was discharged. They drugged me to my eyeballs and tossed me in a cell to detox.” Jack’s breath hitched and he swiped a hand across his eyes. Lady whined, wiggling up the bed and into Jack’s lap. She shoved her nose up under his chin, trying to get as close as possible. Jack stroked a hand through her fur absentmindedly. “Then they’d drug me again and start over. Rinse and repeat. For weeks. You can’t understand. They made me….,” Jack bite off his words, shaking his head.

Brock took a calming breath. His chest felt tight. ”After I escaped, it was just easier to not…" Jack trailed off, licking his lips nervously. Brock must have made some sort of noise, something deep at the back of his throat, because Jack scowled. "I don't need your pity," he growled.

A year ago, Brock would have snarked back with something sarcastic. Maybe tell Jack he was being a dumbass to think Brock would offer something so useless and insulting as pity. Now though, he just placed his hand on Jack's arm, ignoring the way the younger man flinched at the touch. "This is the farthest thing from pity," he said softly. Jack said nothing and gave Lady another scratch with hands that shook. Brock reached over and grabbed the pill bottle from the nightstand. "Here," he said, holding it out to the younger man.

Jack glanced from the bottle up to Brock, a nasty look in his eye. "Fuck you," he breathed. "No, it's not...," Brock stumbled, exasperated. "We're not doing this tonight. Just take them. We’ll start tomorrow." Jack glared at him. He snatched the bottle out of Brock’s hands and got up. “Jack,” Brock tried, but the younger man as already stomping downstairs. Brock groaned, flopping further down against the pillows. Lady whined, scooting her body up against Brock's. He pet her absentmindedly as he waited, hoping Jack would come back to bed.

He didn't, and the next thing Brock knew he was blinking into the early morning sunshine that streamed through the window above his head. He wiped sleep from his eyes, looking over to the other side of the bed. Empty and undisturbed. He shuffled downstairs, clocking the pile of blankets lumped on the couch.

He found Jack slumped forward at the kitchen table, looking like he hadn't slept at all. Lady was at his feet like always. Brock turned the coffee maker on before sliding into the seat next to Jack. The younger man swallowed thickly, letting silence stretch between them. Then, slowly and carefully, he placed the small orange bottle in front of Brock.

"It's gonna get ugly," he whispered, eyes glazed and glassy looking. Brock reached over and squeezed Jack’s wrist. "I'll do a run into town, pick up anything we might need. And we'll get through it, as long it takes."

 

 

  
It started slow, with Jack complaining about a headache creeping up the back of his neck. That night, neither of them got much sleep, Jack because he physically couldn't and Brock because he was too worried to. By the next evening, Jack had become chilled and feverish, the muscles in his back and shoulders starting to cramp. Brock tried to massage the tension out of them, but the fever made Jack’s skin too sensitive to touch.

By the morning of the third day, Brock was sitting on the bathroom floor as Jack emptied the contents of his stomach. Jack flushed the toilet with a shaky hand as Brock passed over a damp washcloth. He wiped his mouth as Brock placed another cool cloth on the back of his neck. Jack hissed as it came into contact with his flushed skin. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this,” he muttered, blushing. Brock couldn't tell if it was from the fever or shame. “Don’t be stupid,” Brock replied quietly.

Jack slumped down to the floor with a groan. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he grimaced as his back spasmed painfully. "Mouth tastes like death," he muttered, curling in closer on himself. It was strange how such a large man could look so fragile. Brock pushed the thought aside. "I'll get you some water.” Jack’s hand snapped out and wrapped around his ankle. "Don't," he whispered harshly. "Just....stay."

Brock sat back down. Jack’s throat jumping as he swallowed anxiously, but he physically relaxed. He reluctantly let go of Brock’s ankle, folding his arms across his stomach. "Talk to me," Brock said softly. Jack chuckled humourlessly. "You keep saying that," he muttered, voice hoarse and rough sounding. "What do you want to hear?"

"Anything," Brock replied. "Whatever you want to tell me." They sat in silence for a long time. "I hate this," Jack said finally, squeezing his eyes shut as another tremor ran through his body. "I hate being made weak."

Brock scooted up and gently lifted Jack's head into his lap as the younger man trembled. "You're anything but weak," he said softly, running his fingers through Jack’s sweat soaked hair. Jack didn’t say anything. He wrapped a hand around Brock’s leg, fingers picking at the soft fabric of his sweats. Time passed and Brock thought that maybe the worst was over. Then Jack tensed. "Fuck," he gasped, clapped a hand over his mouth. "Easy," Brock crooned as he helped Jack sit up, and just in time. Brock grimaced as Jack retched and dry-heaved, nothing left in his stomach but bile. He gasped a breath, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Brock gently squeezed Jack’s shoulder, feeling him tense up and start to shake. Jack brought a hand up to cover his face, turning away.

Brock slipped behind Jack and gently pulled the younger man back to lie against his chest. He held him as Jack sobbed quietly, murmuring comforting nonsense. Eventually, Jack’s breathing evened and slowed. His shoulders stopped shaking even though small tremors still shook his muscles. “You think you can move to the couch?” Brock asked, craning his neck to look down at Jack. The younger man shook his head. “You’d be more comfortable,” Brock tried, but Jack shook his head again, a hand coming up to grasp at Brock’s shirt. “Okay,” Brock soothed, running a hand up and down Jack’s back. “Okay.”

He brought his other hand up to cup the side of Jack’s head, humming absentmindedly. Slowly, the humming formed a tune, and the tune formed words. Brock’s voice was deep and gravelly, the accented words flowing effortlessly off his tongue:

“ _Chiudi gli occhi mio tesor. Dolce amor, dolce amor. Fa la nanna sul mio cuore. Dolce amor, dolce amor. Fa la nanna sul mio cuore."_

Brock felt Jack’s breathing shift and slow, shallowing out until his chest was barely rising. He felt panic begin to well up in his chest. It took his exhausted brain another moment to realize that Jack had just fallen asleep. Brock felt a smile tug at his lips. He leaned back against the wall, wincing as his back protested the angle and the weight pressing down on his chest. His leg’s were starting to tingle and Brock knew his back would be in spasms for days after, but what mattered was that Jack was asleep. Truly asleep, for the first time in days. Brock wouldn't have moved for the world.

 

“Come on, big guy,” Brock murmured a few hours later as Jack started to stir. “I can't carry you and fit through the door. Let’s go.” He coaxed Jack to his feet, ignoring as his back protested. He kept a steadying arm around the taller man’s waist as Jack sagged against him, groaning. “Rooms spinnin’,” he muttered. “I know, I know’,” Brock soothed as they made their way slowly to the couch. Lady bounded up, whimpering. She hadn’t liked it when Brock locked her out of the bathroom. She danced around their feet, body quivering as Brock tried to shoo her away so she wouldn't trip them. He gently lay Jack down on the couch, pulling a blanket over his legs. Lady jumped up, somehow slotting her body into the small space behind Jack’s knees, her chin resting on his thigh.

“Lady, get down,” Brock ordered, but she just whined and snuggled in closer to Jack. “It’s okay,” Jack said quietly. “She’s okay.” Brock ran a soothing hand up Jack’s arm; brushed a stray hair out of his face. “I'll get you some water.” He brought back a glass with a straw. “Little sips,” he cautioned. “ ‘m not a child,” Jack protested weakly. Brock smiled, seeing this as a sign that Jack was starting to feel a little better. He set the water down within easy reach. He hesitated, then pressed his lips gently to Jack’s forehead before stepping away. A hand wrapped around his wrist, pulling him back.

“They made me beg,” Jack whispered. Brock dropped to a knee, shifting Jack’s grip until he held the younger man’s hand in his. “They thought it was hilarious,” he said, voice thick and choked sounding. “The big badass STRIKE lieutenant brought to his knees. And when they threw your tags in my face...” Brock reached up and brushed his thumb gently under Jack’s eye, wiping away the single tear that had rolled down his cheek. “Fuck them,” Brock whispered, voice thick with held back tears of his own. “Fuck them all. We survived. And that’s all that matters.”

 

 

  
It took another two days for Jack to recover from the immediate physical symptoms, most of which was spent curled up on the couch as Brock puttered around quietly. Lady was always at Jack’s side, only leaving when Brock took her outside to do her business and to eat. For Brock’s part, he ended up pulling out an old camping set the previous owners had left behind and slept on the floor beside the couch. Jack protested the first night, stating that Brock’s back shouldn't suffer as well as his. However, the next morning Brock woke to Jack’s arm hanging off the couch, hand wrapped around his bicep, and no more complaints were voiced on behalf of Brock’s back.

It took another week for Jack’s temperament to balance out. He was moody and extra irritable, snapping at Brock and Lady both. It all came to a head with a particularly nasty fight over something completely mundane and stupid. Brock bit his tongue and stormed out to the back deck to get some air before he said something he would later regret. It was almost like dealing with James again, when the kid had been at his worst. Jack was so unpredictable and who knew what would set him off. After a few deep breaths and a couple of muttered curses, Brock went back inside. He found Jack slumped over at the kitchen table, face buried in his hands, and Brock felt his heart break yet again for the younger man.

He grabbed Jack’s hands away from his face, pulling him up and into his arms. Jack stiffened but slowly relaxed into the embrace. “ ‘m sorry,” he whispered into Brock’s neck. Brock just pressed his lips against the junction of Jack’s neck before pulling away. “Come on,” he said, taking Jack by the wrist and leading him upstairs.

He gently pushed him down onto the bed. “Let’s work out those sore muscles. Shirt off,” Brock said, rummaging around in the dresser for that bottle of massage oil they'd left the last time they'd been there. He turned to find Jack gingerly pulling off his shirt, baring his chest and abs. While he had lost muscle mass and definition over the last few months, Jack was still very fit. Brock almost licked his lips, his eyes roaming hungrily over the younger man. A small smirk tugged at Jack’s lips and Brock looked away, feeling a little awkward at being caught so blatantly ogling the man. It had made Jack smile though, for the first time in weeks.

“On your stomach,” he prompted, trying to cover his embarrassment. Jack’s grin widened just an inch as he rolled over, pillowing his head on his arms. Brock paused, wondering if he should put a towel down, but dismissed it because the sheets needed to be washed anyways and if the oil stained, well it was probably time for new bedding anyways. Brock crawled up the bed and straddled Jack, settling down atop his hips. He poured some of the oil into his hands, rubbing them together to warm them. Hints of lavender and sandalwood filled the air. Brock slide his hands up from Jack’s lower back all the way over his shoulders, spreading the oil across the scar-spattered skin.

He started low on Jack’s back, right atop the two divots of muscle in line with his hips. _Venus dimples_ , he remembered them being called. He slowly worked his thumbs up either side of Jack’s spin, digging into the knots under his shoulder blades. Jack groaned as Brock slowly worked out every inch of sore and cramped muscles. He worked until his fingers hurt and started cramping themselves. By the end Jack was complete putty under him. Brock rolled off as Jack stretched and yawned.

Brock chuckled, finding the comparison between the large man and a small cat hilarious. “What’s so funny?” Jack murmured, crowding up close to Brock. “Nothing,” Brock whispered, brushing a stray hair out of Jack’s face. Jack hummed contentedly, pressing his lips to the inside of Brock’s wrist. The gesture surprised Brock, although why he wasn’t sure. He supposed it was because this had never been their style; this casual, quiet intimacy. They had always been big and loud with their affections in private while keeping a professional distance at work. Maybe it was just different now. They didn't have to keep anything hidden anymore. Ever since they found each other again, they were more tender with each other, more gentle. More loving in a way.

He was brought back to reality by Jack murmuring “You’re turn,” in his ear before sitting up on his knees and looking at Brock expectantly. “What?” Brock asked, dumbly. “Don’t think I haven't noticed you wincing when you get up in the morning,” Jack accused. “You’re muscles are just as sore as mine. Shirt off, on your front.”

“Yessir,” Brock chuckled. He reached for the hem of his shirt and then faltered. It was silly. It wasn't like Jack hadn't seen him without his shirt, hadn't seen the damage done to his body. It was just that about this felt more intimate than anything that had happened before. He swallowed and stripped off his shirt, like one might rip of a bandaid just to get it over with. He grimaced as he looked down at himself, at the scattered burn scars and pockmarked skin. At least he was still in good shape. He had that going for him, he supposed. Some of what he was thinking must have shown on his face because he jumped when Jack suddenly leaned forward and pressed his lips to a particular nasty scar on Brock’s shoulder. Brock’s breath hitched and he swallowed, unable to find his voice. Even if he could, he wasn't sure if words were enough in that moment.

Brock found himself being gently manipulated onto his stomach. He felt Jack straddle the back of his thighs and after a moment, warm gun-calloused hands slide up his back. Brock winced as Jack dug his fingers into his tender shoulder muscles. Brock sighed contentedly as Jack’s skilled hands whisked away the tension. He gasped in relief as a knot that had taken up residence near his neck finally released. He swatted half heartedly at Jack’s thigh when the other man chuckled softly. Brock let himself drift.

He was so relaxed it took him a second to realize that Jack was humming. Brock focused on the tune, frowning as he recognized it. “How do you know that song?” He asked, already knowing the answer. “It's been stuck in my head for days,” was Jack’s rumbled reply. “I have you to thank for that, don't I?” Brock blushed, glad his face was hidden by his arms. “I didn't think you'd remember.”

“It wasn't English. What was it?” Jack asked as he slide his hands down under Brock’s shoulder blades. “It's an Italian Christmas carol,” Brock answered. He felt Jack’s hands pause before resuming. “How did I not know you spoke Italian?” Jack ask softly. “I’m pretty rusty,” Brock confessed. “My foster mother used to sing it to me when I was sick. I only remember the one verse.”

“What does it mean?” Jack asked, hands working up to the muscles across his shoulders. Brock hesitated before replying. "I...don't remember," he tried but Jack wasn't having it. "Liar," he said with an amused tone. Brock huffed, flinching as he felt fingers dig into his ribs. "Okay, okay fine!" He snapped, wiggling. Jack chuckled again, and Brock felt his hands back up to his shoulders. " _Close your eyes my..._ something _. Sweet love, sweet love. Go to sleep on my heart, sweet love, sweet love. Go to sleep on my heart."_

Jack went still above him and Brock felt his cheeks blush hot. “It's silly,” he blustered, trying to roll out from under Jack. “No,” the other man whispered, planting his hands on Brock’s back to still his squirming. “It's beautiful.” Brock felt Jack slide a hand down his side. Fingertips teased at the waistband of his sweatpants and Jack shifted above him. Brock shivered as featherlight kisses slowly traced up his spine. A hand slide into his hair as Jack settled on top of him, weight resting on his forearm. He peppered kisses along Brock’s jawline, nipping gently. Brock couldn't help but moan as Jack’s lips found the sensitive spot under his ear.

“I wanna fuck you so bad right now,” Jack murmured in Brock’s ear, the words sending a thrill sparking up his spine. Now that sounded like the old Jack. “However, I doubt I'll be able to get it up tonight.” Jack continued. “You could fuck me though, if you wanted.”

Brock stomach dropped and his breath stuttered, any arousal instantly dying at those last words. “What's wrong?” Jack questioned, picking up on Brock’s discomfort immediately. Brock didn't reply, and then Jack’s weight was gone from his back. A hand clasped his shoulder and gently rolled him over. Brock stared past Jack’s head up at the ceiling as the bigger man settled back on top of him, one leg in between Brock’s and arms bracketing him in on either side.

“Talk to me,” Jack said, parroting Brock’s words back in his face. Brock licked his lips nervously, too anxious to even be mad at Jack using his words against him. “I've…been having,” Brock stuttered. “Issues….down there. Ever since…,” Brock gestured weakly to all of him. “Nothing?” Jack asked and Brock cringed, blushing furiously. “Nope,” he said, popping the P harshly. “Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch—,”

“Okay, I get the picture,” Jack interrupted, brushing his fingertips across Brock’s lips. “That's completely normal.” Brock's eyebrows raised in surprise. “It is?” He said, suspiciously. “Yes,” Jack said adamantly. “Especially after the type of injuries you sustained.” Brock swallowed, feeling a little better but also still a little ill. “So what does it mean?”

“It means you need time,” Jack said gently. “It's been months,” Brock exclaimed. “So you need more time. It's not a race, Brock.” Jack chided gently. Brock huffing an impatient breath. “It’ll be okay,” Jack murmured, brushing the back of his fingers across Brock’s cheekbone. “Since when did the tables turn and you were the one comforting me?” Brock grumbled, settling his hands on Jack’s hips. Jack chuckled softly. “Give and take, love,” he said, the endearment casually rolling off his tongue and making Brock blush. “That's what it means,” Jack nodded over to the dresser were their wedding rings sat, safely nestled in black velvet.

“We should start wearing them,” Brock said softly. Jack looked down at him with a puzzled expression. “It just…feels right. Somehow,” Brock said with a shrug, able to offer no more explanation for the confusing feelings fizzing in his stomach. Luckily for him, Jack didn't demand anything further. He just smiled and nodded before leaning down to capture Brock’s mouth with his own.

 

 


	14. December

Jack woke to a soft, muted grey light shining in through the window. He shivered, the air freezing in the early morning before either of them had a chance to start a fire. A warm body pressed up against his, an arm wrapping around his torso from behind. He hummed in satisfaction, closing his eyes again. “Go back to sleep,” a gravelly voice murmured in his ear. “I'm gonna do a run into town in case the snow gets any worse.” Jack grunted in acknowledgment and the in displeasure as the rustling of the sheets caused the cold air to sneak into his warm cocoon.

He heard a soft chuckle, followed by a quiet whistle. The bed dipped with sudden weight and Jack felt something cold and wet poke at his ear. He cursed and rolled over, opening his eyes to a fluffy mass of fur. He glared across Lady’s back at Brock. The man was grinning wickedly as he shrugged on a long sleeved shirt, jeans riding low on his hips. Jack took a moment to appreciate the view before burrowing back under the covers. Lady snuggled up against him, resting her head daintily on her paws.

Jack woke hours later to the smell of coffee and the quiet sounds of guitar music wafting up from downstairs. Jack groaned as he threw back the covers, shivering as his bare feet hit the cold floor. His wedding ring, hanging on the chain beside his dog tags, bounced off his chest as he stood. The scars that sliced across his hands made wearing a ring uncomfortable, so he and Brock decided to wear them around their necks instead. They weren’t the strictly traditional sort anyways.

He shrugged into a heavy-knit sweater and pulled on thick socks before padding downstairs. A fire crackled in the fireplace and Jack could see Brock’s dark hair sticking up over the couch. Jack made his way into the kitchen, pouring himself a generous cup of coffee with plenty of sugar. He turned and pulled up short as he realized that the music he was hearing was coming from Brock.

Sure enough, the man sitting in front of him had a guitar nestled in his lap, fingers plucking across the strings in a soft, simple melody. Jack leaned back against the counter, watching. After a few minutes, Brock’s fingers fumbled and the notes clashed in an ugly twanging sound. Brock cursed under his breath, shaking out his left hand. His eyes flicked up, meeting Jack’s. A faint blush crept up the back of his neck, much to Jack’s amusement.

Jack perched on the arm of the couch next to Brock. “You’re just full of surprises these days,” Jack murmured, taking another sip. The blush crept further, staining Brock’s ears pink. He flexed his left hand with a grimace. “The nerve damage makes it more difficult than I remember,” he said softly. Jack shifted to sit beside him, setting down his coffee. He took Brock’s hand in his, gently massaging the tendons in his wrist. “How long?” He asked, working his fingers down into Brock’s palm. “Started playing when I was sixteen,” Brock answered. Jack raised his eyebrows. “What?” Brock exclaimed. “I stopped the year before I joined SHIELD. I hadn't even met you yet.”

“Why'd you stop?” Jack asked, curious, as he massaged down each of Brock's fingers. “I dunno,” Brock muttered. “Can't remember anymore. Frank was getting rid of this, so I figured why not. Not like we have cable or anything.”

Jack chuckled, letting go of Brock's hand and picking up his mug again. “Play me something?” Jack asked, taking a sip of his coffee. Brock hesitated. “I'm pretty rusty,” he cautioned. “If it's anything like your Italian, I think I'll survive,” Jack commented dryly. Brock huffed, annoyed, but settled the instrument better in his lap all the same. Another hesitation and then rich, fluttering notes reverberated from the instrument.

Jack leaned back against the arm of the couch, tucking his feet up as he listened to Brock play. It was a simple melody with Brock’s right hand doing most of the heavy lifting. He probably choose it for that reason, as his left hand had suffered more nerve damage than the right. Brock faltered a few times, but always managed to pick up the pieces. The song eventually ended, the last note echoing through the cabin and softy dying away. Jack smiled warmly. “That was beautiful,” he murmured. Brock blushed again, looking past Jack’s head. “It's still snowing,” he commented, trying to deflect Jack’s attention from himself.

Brock looked back at Jack, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Wanna build a snow fort?” He said, smirking. Jack chuckled, shaking his head. “You're such a child,” he muttered, draining the last of his coffee. “That wasn't a no,” Brock said wickedly, setting the guitar aside and grabbing Jack by the wrist. Brock pulled him to the door, where they shrugged on jackets and boots and stumbled out the back door into a white winter wonderland.

Brock leapt off the back deck, Lady close on his heels. Jack grinned as Brock started scooping up handfuls of snow and throwing them at her. She in turn would leap into the air, barking gleefully. Jack stood on the deck, chuckling at their antics.

Chuckling that is, until something cold and wet smacked into the side of his face. Jack wiped snow from his eyes, glowering at Brock who stood looking out over the yard, trying and failing to seem innocent. Jack slowly and menacingly made his way down the steps, scooping a handful of snow off the railing as he went. Brock saw him coming out the corner of his eye and tried to make a run for it, but Jack was faster.

He grabbed Brock by the scruff of his jacket and stuffed the handful of snow down his back. Brock squawked as it slid down his shirt. He wriggled out of Jack’s grip and scrabbled at the back of his jacket. He yanked the bottom of his shirt up, shaking out the snow. He turned on Jack with a dangerous look in his eye. “Oh it's so on, motherfucker,” he growled. “Bring it,” Jack taunted, bending to grab another handful of snow.

 

 

An hour or so later and they tumbled back into the cabin, soaking wet and freezing. They stumbled against each other, clumsy from cold and breathless with laughter. Brock tripped over Lady as she wiggled in behind them, falling against Jack’s chest. Jack reached out and grasped Brock by the elbows to stabilize him. Brock looked up at him and the heat in the other man’s gaze made Jack breathless for a whole different set of reasons. Jack cupped the back of Brock’s head, ignoring the other man’s hiss at Jack’s cold fingers, and gently pressed his lips to Brock’s. It started out chaste, cold lips easing over each other, but quickly progressed into something far more heated.

Jack felt Brock’s teeth nip at his lower lip and he growled, gripping Brock by the hair. Brock’s hands yanked Jack’s coat down to his elbows. Jack pulled away long enough for his jacket to fall to the ground and to toe off his boots while Brock rid himself of his. He crowded up against Brock, marching him backwards into the living room. Brock’s legs bumped against the couch and he fell backwards in surprise. Jack loomed over him, unable to keep his eyes off the other man. Brock’s normally perfectly coiffed hair was sticking up in every direction, mussed from the snow and Jack’s fingers, and his face was flushed from the cold. The look in his eyes was practically predatory as he reached up and grabbed Jack’s sweater, pulling him down. Jack pitched forward, shooting out a hand to brace himself against the back of the couch.

“Aren't you eager,” Jack murmured as he brought one leg, then the other to straddle the other man. Brock’s hands slid up his thighs and now it was Jack’s turn to hiss as Brock’s freezing cold fingers slipped under his sweater and up his back. He buried a hand in Brock’s hair and yanked his head back in revenge, baring his throat. He growled as he nipped at the sensitive spot under Brock’s ear, causing the other man to moan and buck up against him. Sparks of pleasure tingled up Jack’s spine and he ground down against Brock, rocking his hips slowly.

This wasn't the first time they had had sex since Jack’s detox, but everything up until now had been very one sided. So Jack was pleasantly surprised as he felt something shift underneath him. He chuckled into Brock’s neck to hide his giddy relief because finally, finally they were both okay.

“Look at you, back in action,” he murmured. Brock’s hands tightened on his hips and his breath stuttered. He pushed Jack up slightly, staring down at his own crotch. “Huh,” was all he said before Jack found himself flipped onto his back along the couch. Brock moved to straddle his hips, planting a hand in the middle of his chest with a smirk.

Jack didn't let him have the upper hand for long. He tucked his hands under Brock’s thighs and sat up suddenly, flipping Brock onto his back. He pushed up Brock shirt, peppering kisses down his abs. He paused when he got to Brock’s waistband, glancing up. Brock slide a hand into his hair. His fingers might have an iron grip, but his eyes were vulnerable and almost apprehensive. Jack must have shown something on his face, because Brock seemed to mentally shake himself. He covered whatever had just happened by yanking at Jack’s sweater. “Too many clothes,” he complained.

Jack chuckled, shucking himself out of the sweater easily. He tossed it to one side, settling himself down in between Brock’s legs. He brushed fingertips across Brock’s cheek and leaned in, kissing him as gently and sweetly as he could. They kissed lazily, in no rush to get to the finish line. Jack waiting, slowly rolled his hips, until Brock was moaning against his lips before he slide down Brock’s body with a predatory smirk.

 

 

Later, much later, Jack pulled on his boxers and padded into the kitchen while Brock put another log on the fire. He grabbed a frozen pizza and popped it in the oven because fuck cooking right now. He turned back as the sounds of soft jazz filled the cabin. He found Brock facing away from him by the record player, wearing not a scrap of clothing. The warm firelight flickered, and the soft grey light from outside accentuated the lines of Brock’s lean body. Jack took his time admiring the man. The oven beeped and Brock turned, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips when he found Jack watching him. “You didn't even take off your socks?” Brock accused, eyeing Jack’s feet distastefully. “Fucking animal.”

“What can I say, the ladies love it,” Jack said with a smirk, making his way across the cabin. “Oh yeah,” Brock rolled his eyes. “You're a real class act.”

“I didn't hear you complaining a minute ago,” Jack retorted, poking a finger to the middle of Brock’s chest. Brock hooked a finger in the waistband of Jack’s briefs, pulling him closer. “Oh no?” He said cheekily. “No,” Jack said, wrapping his arms around the shorter man’s waist. “In fact, it was more along the lines of ‘Don't stop, Jackie,’ and ‘Oh, just like that’, and —,”

“Okay, enough,” Brock interrupted, clapping a hand over Jack’s mouth. “You’ll scandalize the Lady.” He nodded his head to where Lady was fast asleep on one of her multiple beds, this one situated under the stairs. Jack raised his eyebrows, pulling away from Brock’s hand. “If she’s not already scandalized by what just happened, we have nothing to worry about.” He gave Brock a light slap on the hip and went upstairs to change. He yanked on clean underwear and was about to pull on a light blue sweater when hands grabbed at him, yanking him around.

Lips crashed against his as he felt a hand trace down his back and slide intimately under his boxers. He inhaled sharply against Brock‘s mouth as the sweater was tugged from his hands. Jack let it go willingly, leaning closer against the other man. Then, as quick as he had arrived, Brock pulled away. Jack blinked, at first confused and then gobsmacked as Brock just smirked at him, pulling the sweater over his own head. “All that for my sweater?” Jack said incredulously. “I like this sweater,” Brock said cheekily, pulling on a pair of old sweatpants. “Asshole,” Jack muttered, grabbing another shirt from the dresser. “Go be useful and check the pizza.”

The darkening sky found the two of them curled up on the couch, the remains of the pizza spread out on the coffee table. The fire crackled and Brock plucked away at the guitar again. Jack closed his eyes, letting the gentle melodies drift over him. He felt himself falling asleep and startled awake with a jerk. He heard a soft chuckle and the music stopped. Hands pushed him sideways and he let himself fall down across the couch as his feet were picked up and placed across a warm lap. Strong fingers dug into the arches of his feet and Jack hummed in contentment, letting his eyes close.

 

 

When Jack opened his eyes again, it was fully dark outside. The fire had burned down to embers and a distinct chill filled the shadowy cabin. He felt a heavy weight sprawled over his legs and looked down to a dark haired head resting on his hip. The rest of Brock’s body was tucked behind and around Jack’s legs, with a blanket thrown over the both of them. Jack smiled, scratching his fingers through Brock’s hair. The older man sighed, arching up into the touch. Jack slipped out from under the other man, slipping a pillow under Brock’s head. Brock whined, making grabby hands at him. Jack chuckled, dodging Brock’s seeking fingers and knelt to build the fire up again. After that task was done, he padded over to the window and peered outside. The snow was now coming down in a thick wash of white.

He turned at the soft pad of feet as Brock came up beside him. He admired the other man’s profile, backlight by the flickering of the fire and nothing else. It made him look younger, smoothing the scars and lines carved by age and stress. Brock’s eyes flicked to the side, catching Jack staring. “What?” He said, a smile in his voice. “Nothin’,” Jack replied softly. “Just lookin’.”

To his amusement, a light blush rose up on Brock’s cheeks and the man crossed his arms, shifting his weight self-consciously. It had always amazed Jack that even in his prime, Brock was always just a touch uneasy with himself, never fully confident for all that he would puff out his chest and pretended otherwise. “Creep,” Brock muttered. “Second time I’ve caught you staring today.”

Jack closed the distance between them in two steps, reaching up to grasp Brock’s chin. He turned his head sideways, capturing the shorter man’s mouth with his own. “Maybe I just like the view,” he said with a small smirk. Brock huffed and rolled his eyes, but didn’t pull away from Jack’s grip. Jack traced his thumb across Brock’s lower lip and the other man inhaled sharply. “You’re beautiful,” Jack whispered.

Brock stiffen under his hands and he pulled away from Jack’s hand. Jack watched as something flickered behind those dark eyes before disappearing behind that trademark smirk. “You’ve gotten sappy in your old age,” Brock quipped. Jack said nothing, just stared at him searchingly. Brock fidgeted, looking like he wanted to escape. Jack stepped closer, feeling a little alarmed as Brock almost matched him with a step back before catching himself and letting Jack close the distance again.

Jack waited, patiently. Just as Brock had his ways of getting him to talk about unpleasant or painful things, Jack did as well. His tactic usually was to say nothing until Brock was so uncomfortable with the silence that he caved. It usually worked. He continued to wait as Brock got more and more fidgety until finally, his patience was rewarded. “I’m not though,” Brock mumbled, staring down at his feet. “Not anymore.”

Before Jack even had a moment to respond, Brock shook himself and placed that mask over his vulnerability again. “It’s stupid, just forget it.” He rocked back a step, but Jack didn't let him. He matched the distance, cupping Brock’s face with both of his hands. He pressed a featherlight kiss to Brock’s lips. He traced his lips across Brock’s jaw, across the spattering of scars that reached up to his temple. He traced the thickened skin down Brock’s neck and across his collar bone. He kissed at the hollow of Brock’s throat and felt the other man shiver. A hand came up to tangle in his hair, and Jack made his way back up to Brock’s lips.

“You are such a sap,” Brock mumbled against his lips. “Only for you,” Jack smirked, wrapping an arm around Brock’s waist. Whatever sarcastic retort the man had on his lips died and he gasped softy as Jack ran his fingers along the ridge of muscle that traced Brock’s hip and disappeared under his sweatpants.

“Wanna head upstairs for round two?”

 

 

Soft footsteps and the tantalizing smell of coffee dragged Jack from the depths of sleep and he opened his eyes to see Brock slipped back into bed, a mug clutched in each hand. “Good morning,” Brock said. Jack hummed in response as he sat up, leaning back against the headboard. A seaming mug was pressed into his hands and Jack inhaled deeply, catching hints of cinnamon and nutmeg. “We are officially snowed in,” Brock said, taking a sip of his own coffee. “Good thing I did a run when I did.”

“I could think of worst ways to spend the holidays,” Jack said, glancing across at the other man. Brock looked back at him, a warm and lazy look in his eyes. Jack leaned across the distance and pressed his lips to Brock’s, tasting hazelnut creamer and cinnamon.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another year done! Thanks to everyone for continuing to read and for all the feedback! Join me and the boys again for Year 2015/2016!


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